Time
by Graysonation
Summary: Nine months since Reid stopped talking to his best friend. Seven months since Peter realized he was no ordinary human. Five months since Sylar made murder his primary goal in life. And in Odessa, Texas, while re-investigating the deaths of several people with 'abilities,' all of their worlds come crashing together into a true-form nightmare. (Part of my "Leap of Faith" universe.)
1. No Choice

**Author's Note: **It's so funny . . . I've been promising to get around to doing this since what feels like the beginning of forever ago . . . and even though finals technically aren't over (not even close, alas!), I just woke up today and knew that I was ready. So, here we go.

This story is from the same _Criminal Heroes_ universe from my story "Leap of Faith," so you might wanna give that one a look-see before starting this thing – there could be references at some point. Since the show's time frames overlapped a bit, consider this story to be around the end of the second seasons for both series. There'll certainly be allusions, so it might be best to be somewhat aware of all the big things that went down in those times.

Hmmm . . . Oh, right. This _is not slash. _I have no problem with pairings and all of that fun stuff, but as delicious as all of my favorite boys are, I can't hook any of them up with each other. No. Peter and Spencer are just friends in my world, and Sylar is just a very sexy antagonist.

Anything else . . . Nope. Let's do this! Eek, I'm so excited!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy.

* * *

_**Chapter One: No Choice**_

* * *

By all means, Spencer Reid was not a disorganized man.

He was intelligent, precise, and hyper-vigilant. In fact, some would go so far as to call him a fussy, finnicky neat-freak.

Normally, the young doctor would be well-groomed and well-prepared, as would be the other aspects of his life; his schedule, his notes, his attire – and _especially_ his apartment. Reid felt clam when things were clean.

However, had anyone been allowed into the man's apartment recently, they quite simply would have been shocked to see the state that his place of living was in.

Everything was in disarray. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sinks, the cupboards looted and not holding nothing but the large collection of sugar packets and coffee that made up the young genius's typical diet. The hundreds of books that Spencer had collected over the years were, instead of being filed alphabetically on the shelves all around his living room, tossed haphazardly into stacks with no particular order; many of the piles had started to gather a thin film of dust, having not been touched since being placed in their respective spots several weeks ago. The bookshelves, meanwhile, had become home to piles of clothes, an eclectic mixture of washed and dirty garments, all shoved messily, layer upon layer, onto the wooden boards. Reid's closet, then, was almost totally empty, except for a small pile of blankets in the very back, where a human-sized dent broke across the middle of the fabric. The only light came from a small nightlight that had been plugged into the outlet nearest the closet door, where Spencer Reid himself was currently fiddling with the tiny bulb, attempting to re-ignite the small fluorescent glow.

"Damn it!" he yelped suddenly, pulling back his thumb and examining the damage.

_Just a cut, _he adominished himself, popping the finger in his mouth and trying to focus on something else. _Don't be so –_

_ – "You're all weak!" –_

Violently, Reid shook his head free of the thought before the memory of Charles's voice could fully reach him. Tobias had been _months_ ago, he reminded himself for what felt like the thousandth time. _You have __**nothing**__ to worry about, you –_

_ – "You're a liar!" –_

_No, _Reid forced the words from his head. He wasn't there in the cabin with a delusional murderer, he was here in his apartment, he was safe, he was _fine._

Reid bit back a bitter smile as he glanced over to the pile of blankets that had become his bed over the past two months. _Just fine. _

_Sure_. He was _just fine_ with the fact that his nightmares had returned with a vengeance ever since Georgia, violent and terrifying to the extent that he would often wake himself up with his own screaming. _Just fine_ that he kept thrashing around in his sleep until he would roll out of bed – which, in time, got to be so irritating that he'd taken to sleeping on the floor, if just to avoid all of the bumping and bruising.

It was _certainly fine_ that he had had to run to the store several weeks ago to pick up a nightlight. Just _fine_ that he had stammered something about his 'son' needing one, while the cashier studied the bags beneath his eyes and nodded knowingly. Just dandy and good and _fine _that he was _still _dependent on something like a glow-in-the-dark light, when he was supposed to have outgrown something so childish _years ago. _

He actually had, for the longest time.

But Tobias Hankel changed that.

_He changed a lot of things, _Reid reflected as he plugged in the new bulb, ashamed at the wave of relief that flooded him when it clicked on and casted a faint glow around his room.

_A lot. _

Sighing, Reid walked quickly back into the kitchen, grabbing his gun and phone from the table before heading back to his . . . closet.

He always slept with his gun, now – for safety. It was illogical, and the genius knew that –after all, if someone were to sneak up on him while he was dozing, his slow reactions and poor aim would render his sidearm completely useless. But he couldn't help himself; having the cool steel of the barrel tucked into his hands was the only way he could get to sleep anymore.

Well, the only way without the assistance of a particular controlled substance, anyway.

Reid shook his head again, setting the alarm on his phone. _No. You don't need it, you don't have to take anything, you just need to get some sleep. _

_Right_, he scoffed to himself, already in inner turmoil as he prepared to lay down. _Get some sleep – the all-day coffee should make it take an extra three-four hours to actually get to sleep, and then the nightmares will wake you up after thirty minutes . . . then toss in the shakes from cravings, and it looks like you'll only be going to work with an hour of so of REM._

But then, he'd gone into the BAU with far less.

Reid dug down into the thick comforter he'd placed on top of his little nest, and tried to drown out his mind. He didn't want to think about work tomorrow, about how he was going to be subjected to yet another day of his friends, and their worried looks, and their suspicious glances, and their just all-around _knowing. _

Because Spencer Reid was certain that, even if none of them had said anything about it, they _knew. _

_They knew about his nightmares. They knew about his fatigue. They knew about his uncertainty, his reluctance, about how his stomach would turn every time he saw a photo of a victim these days._

_They knew about the drugs. _

"No-oh," Reid moaned into his arms, distressed by even the thought of that. They couldn't know. He had been much to careful – he only shot up at home, over the weekends, and he thought he did a god job of keeping his temper in check.

Of course, there had been that one incident with Emily, just a few weeks ago, when he'd been snappish, unresponsive, and, in general, quite rude. He knew that he had put their newest agent on-guard with his behavior, and he was working to rectify that, being ever more polite and quiet at work.

Unfortunately, when he had been going for even a few days without the Dilaudid, it made it harder and harder to pretend that things were okay with him. Because they weren't.

But then, Spencer Reid had always been quite good at pretending.

About to drift off, Reid was understandably irritated when his phoned beeped loudly, and swiped it up, praying that there wasn't a case. He glanced at the screen.

**1 New Message from Peter Petrelli. **

Frowning, Reid closed the phone and slid it over by the wall. _Just Peter again, _he thought, angry and confused once more as he thought about his best friend.

Strike that, his ex-best friend. Who he hadn't spoken to. In nine months.

Well, actually, it wasn't that _he_ hadn't spoken to Peter; _Peter _hadn't contacted him in close to a year, despite Spencer's many attempts to reach out.

And now, here he was, having repeatedly texted and called and left messages for the young doctor over the course of the past half month.

The thing was, though, that, after forty weeks of silence, suddenly Spencer didn't want to talk to the man he used to call brother.

He didn't want to talk to anyone, anymore. The only one he told his problems to was a small, clear bottle as he would prep a fresh syringe.

_Speaking of which . . ._

Reid forced his thoughts away from the cold, quaky feeling in his stomach, and tried to focus on something else, on _anything_ else. He was making yet another vague attempt to quit and get clean, and he'd gone almost three days without using. Not much, but it was further than he'd gotten in a long time, and –

his phone beeped again.

**2 New Messages from Peter Petrelli.**

_God damn it, leave me alone!_ Reid thought, agonized, as he once more shoved the phone away, and burrowed deeper into his pile of blankets. For someone as sensitive and good at reading people as Peter always claimed to be, why couldn't the damn man see that Spencer didn't _want_ _to talk to him?_

_I'm never going to get to sleep like this, _Reid reasoned with himself, thinking longingly of the small, clear bottles and unused needles hidden behind his bathroom mirror. _I wouldn't need to take a lot, just small enough does to get to sleep – I have work tomorrow!_ He justified with himself righteously, his inhibitions already lowering at the thought of a sweet, wonderful high.

Somewhere deep inside of him, Spencer's conscience was screaming that this was a stupid idea, that he had to be surrounded with profilers pretty soon, that he was already on the verge of success, as far as ridding his system of the narcotic was, that –

– that his phone chimed once again, alerting him to yet another text.

**3 New Messages from Peter Petrelli.**

_I really have no choice, _Reid told himself in a desperate attempt to remain logical, even as he slammed his phone shut and turned it off, before making his way to the bathroom.

_I need to sleep. I need the rest. The break._

_I don't have a choice._

He kept telling himself that, his eyes never leaving that of his reflection and he prepared a needle, tied a tourniquet around his arm, and prepared to lower and release the drugs into his system.

In the brief second before he pushed the plunger, Reid's eyes cringed up, always ashamed at himself for what he was doing.

But he had no choice.

* * *

Outside of the modest apartment building where Spencer lived, there stood a man whom no one could see. That, of course, was because Peter Petrelli didn't _want _to be seen, and had rendered himself invisible as soon as he's come within a block of his old friend's home.

Peter hadn't moved in some time – he was waiting for someone to open the door so that he could sneak in behind them and make his way up to Spencer's place. And, in the meantime, he was watching the windows carefully, searching for even a glimpse of his buddy as the night wore on.

He saw that there was a light on coming from Spencer's apartment, and he could even see shadows moving around. But, when he sent a text message to Reid, there was no answer. The second and third ones had been ignored, too.

_I wonder of he's just sick._

Peter clenched his eyes shut, and tried to envision his mind stretching out like a blanket, going to encompass the mind of his oldest and closest friend. He forced his focus to stay oriented on just the young genius on the second floor, and patiently waited, attempting to hear Reid's thoughts.

_It was . . . nothing._

_Damn it, _Peter sighed, looking up. He had read many people's minds before, with relative ease – it was one of his favorite powers – but it was only when attempting to delve into the conscience of Spencer Reid that he experienced any trouble.

_Well, him and Matthew Parker, _Peter recalled, thinking about the cop who could also hear minds; when the two had attempted to get a reading on one another, it had been incredibly painful.

But, somehow, Peter didn't think that his problem was with Spencer being able to read minds, too; after all, if his counterpart could, then surely Reid would have been able to see that Peter had been trying to contact him not out of selfishness, but concern. _Surely, _he would know that he was in danger, and Peter was just trying to help.

_But maybe not, _Peter reasoned with himself, as he crept silently towards the building, following a little old woman who he recognized as Spencer's neighbor.

_Spencer was always smarter and more mature – but emotionally? Guy's a train-wreck._

The darker-haired man smiled lovingly at that thought. Train-wreck or not, Spencer was one of the most important people in the world to him, and he couldn't let the kid be in harm's way. He had to protect his brother.

_Which,_ Peter reflected, as he came up outside of the bright red door to Peter's apartment, _would be a lot easier if he would just pick up the phone and talk to me!_

Frustrated, Peter ran his hands through his hair (a nervous habit he had picked up from Spencer himself) and dialed his old friend's number, listening for any sound of ringing coming from the apartment.

Nothing. He was sent straight to voicemail.

_"Hello, you've reached the number of Spencer Reid. Statistically, did you know that the odds of you actually connecting with me by phone are less than 36%? But, if you're determined to make contact, leaving a detailed message with your name and phone number can push that percentage to almost 62%, and I will get back to you as quickly as I am able. Thank you for your time."_

Peter might have rolled his eyes, but his heart quickly warmed at the sound of his friend's voice – god, he'd missed him. Peter clicked his phone shut without leaving a message, and settled down on the floor, careful to remain invisible as a young couple went strolling by and nearly hit him.

_I'll talk to him tomorrow. When he leaves. _

_I really have no choice. _

* * *

Further away, outside of the same building, a much taller, more muscular man stood leaning against a bus stop sign, having watched as the form of Peter Petrelli had arrived, disappeared, and had presumably walked inside the apartment complex.

He wasn't exactly sure, but his research told him that dear _Peter _was visiting his _dear Dr. Reid. _

The man sneered, thinking vaguely of ending this all tonight, of going in and _getting _that man who had made his life miserable for so long, now.

_I could finish it tonight – just one more_ – he thought excitedly, before cooling calm and reason settled over him, drowning out the thoughts.

Sylar always _did_ like to be calm.

_Patience, _he reminded himself. _Patience. He has more powers, and he's on guard. Stick to the plan, and soon, Petrelli will be gone, and you free. _

Casting one last calculating glance at the building before him, Sylar breathed in hugely, and then out, finally completely relaxing.

He turned, and walked away into the night.

He would wait.

He really had no choice.


	2. Move

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys! As semi-pseudo promised, I am back, bearing another chapter. Hoo-rah . . . Now, before forget, I want to thank those who have followed, favorited, and reviews. _That_ made me smile, and now this is my extreme gratitude at work.

Still not a whole lot of action in this chapter – we're building up the story, dearies. So prepare to meet the team! And some more Peter and Sylar of course, because . . . yum.

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Two: Move**_

* * *

JJ thought that, given the circumstances, she was going to be giving the team a relatively easy day. No urgent new cases had come through her desk, so she hadn't had to call the BAU in early, or cut into their weekend. For the first time ever, there wasn't a tremendous pile of files stacked up in her office, so that meant that the people she loved wouldn't be subjected to a long and boring day of paperwork. She'd managed to wrangle them a decent deal; they were going to be looking into a possible link between two cases; which meant that they got the jet and the hotel rooms and the field work, minus quite so much the time constraint, as it looked like their possible unsub was relatively dormant, at least for the time being.

All things considered, this looked like it was going to be one of the better ventures at work, even more so because Garcia had brought coffee and bagels for everyone while they waited to brief.

Or, more accurately, waited for Spencer Reid to show up.

JJ knew that the young man was under stress, that he was bothered and tired and had a lot of things he wasn't saying – but it still frustrated her how he was acting lately. Late to meetings, quiet and broody, less than polite to the people around him . . . he had changed so drastically in the last few months, ever since Hankel. And it bothered JJ.

But the beautiful blonde knew that she would never bring it up with the genius, because, while she suspected what might be wrong (they all did), she in no way wanted to put herself on Reid's target list, or even get confirmation of her suspicions. It would be too much to take.

Besides, she _still_ felt incredibly guilty about the incident. Reid had told her not to, Morgan had told her not to, Emily and Penelope and Gideon and even Hotch had told her that it wasn't her fault . . . but the media liaison would never stop feeling guilty about what her absence had subjected the man who was like her little brother to.

JJ shook her head of the thoughts as said man swiftly entered the conference room, raggedly brushing his hair out of his eyes before sliding into a seat. Everyone's eyes looked up as the genius reached out quickly for the cup of coffee waiting with his name written on it.

Reid took one sip, grimacing slightly at the stale texture of the cold drink, before seeing the looks he was receiving from around the room, and he raised one eyebrow, his shoulders squared.

"I turned off my phone last night, and missed my alarm. I got here as fast as I could."

_See, _that was what was so worrying. JJ sighed. Before, her sweet little Spencer would have fumbled and blushed and apologized profusely before he's even set his bag down. Now he was just sitting there, looking like death warmed over, and not making eye contact with a single person as he spoke shortly.

Hotch looked at him, about to say something, and then caught the look that Gideon was giving him, and pursed his lips, frowning slightly before speaking up.

"As long as you're alright."

The implication wasn't lost on Reid, and he snapped, "I'm _fine._" He glanced around, taking another hasty sip of his coffee before continuing, less arduously, "Isn't there a case we're supposed to be working on?"

The frown was still etched in Hotch's face as he turned to face JJ, saying only, "Don't let it happen again," before gesturing to JJ to start the briefing.

"Alright," the blond began, casting one last worried glance in Spencer's direction before turning on the projector.

"This," she continued, gesturing to a DMV photo on the board, "is Alejandro Herrera, 36, recently on the run from the Dominican Republic. He, and his sister Maya, are wanted in connection with a mass homicide; supposedly, the two of them poisoned over one hundred people."

Hotch looked up. " A hundred?"

JJ sighed. "It was at Alejandro's wedding. The authorities think it was something slipped in the food. All the guests found the next morning with lacerations around their eyes, pale skin, signs of bruising and pre-mortem trauma – all dead. Apparently, no one but these two survived, and they've been missing ever since. Until Thursday, no one knew that Herrera was even in the states."

"Possible unsub?" Morgan questioned, scanning over the file in front of him.

"No. Latest victim." JJ clicked the remote, and another picture appeared onscreen, making every member of the BAU team wince.

"He was found last week in a motel off the highway, near Atlanta. He had been stabbed repeatedly, and then the was just left out in the open. The maid found _this_," she gestured at a second body picture of the gruesome crime scene, "when she went in to clean up. No sign of Maya or anyone else."

"Is that – ?" Prentiss asked, suddenly placing her hand over her mouth, looking nauseated.

"The victim was found eviscerated and the . . . the top of his head had been cut off." JJ added, miserably.

There was silence for a moment, as the whole team tried to take in the disturbingly graphic pictures before them.

"Okay, I'll grant, it's pretty gruesome – classic signs of rage and overkill," Morgan started, getting confirming nods from everyone in the room. "But what exactly makes this a BAU case? It looks like the sister might have had to tie up lose ends, looses it, and kills Alejandro."

"According to witnesses, Maya and Alejandro checked in with a third member in their party – male, tall, dark hair, early 30's, well-built and dressed in all black. _They_ say that the sister kept calling him Gabriel. And, while the brother and sister shared a room, this 'Gabriel' got one by himself – where the victim's body was found."

"And," Hotch cut in smoothly, "there were fingerprints found on the scene." He stood up, gesturing for the media liaison to hand him the remote, which she did so gladly, and began pulling up another group of photos on the scene.

"There was no match found on the DNA and print evidence," he started, answering the unasked question with a slight frown. "However, BOLO identified the both as being found in a series of earlier crime scenes. It was another Bureau case, though not ours, and it was never solved. They were referred to as – "

"– The _Sylar Cases." _Everyone looked up at the sound of reverie in the young genius's voice, and Reid blushed at the attention.

"Ah – it was a s-series of murders that took place over the course of last June to mid-November. At least thirty-seven known victims, two listed survivors, and no apparent suspects. The unsub was classified as a spree killer; his murders spread from Texas to New York, and he killed across all sorts of demographics regarding sex, age, race, income and risk level, and status. Investigators were never able to find any connections between any of the deceased or ties to any potential persons of interest, all leads petered out, and eventually, the case was declared cold when the murders stopped by December."

Hotch nodded at his subordinate. "That' right. We didn't get it that time, but, with the newest murder, the Bureau has asked our team to take a look, and determine whether or not we need to arrange a task-force to find this guy."

"Is it really that bad?" Morgan seemed hesitant.

Hotch gestured to Reid, who spoke rapidly.

"Every single one of the victims found by Sylar had bean in some way mutilated; heads were cut off, limbs moved around; one couple in Los Angeles was found bled out, impaled on their own staircase, with their eight-year-old daughter in the next room. By the looks of it, every death was long, drawn-out, and extremely painful."

"And with no correlation found between the victims, that makes everyone a target. This guy doesn't care about what evidence we find, because he knows that he's not recorded in any system; he's fast, efficient, brutal, and, if he's back, a lot of lives are at risk. That makes Sylar a priority."

"_Sylar," _Gideon mused, studying the police reports. "What the Hell kind of serial killer names themselves after a fancy watch?"

"It says here that one of the unsub's first victims, a Dr. Chandra Suresh, had a message on his voicemail from a male who identified himself _as_ 'Sylar.' I don't have the exact transcripts – we'll need to get those from NYPD Metro in person – but it says in the report that 'Sylar' was threatening the life of the doctor. The next week, they found his body in a cab in New York City – he had been stabbed, in a like manner to Alejandro." JJ turned off the screen, and took a seat at the round table.

The entire team was nodding as they took in all of the information, but it was only Morgan who noted the way Reid's face paled considerably at the mention of Suresh's murder. He made a mental not to ask the genius about it later, and turned to face Gideon.

"So what's what?"

"We've been given a week to collect intel," Hotch answered. "Top brass isn't pleased with the way that the case was handled previously, and they want us to review the information we already have and gather any new evidence; our job is to determine whether this is a legitimate threat, a re-emergence of a prolific serial killer, an imposter . . . something."

"And we're going to split up to do it." Everyone looked at Gideon, who met their eyes with an equally challenging stare.

"There are at least three areas of significance; New York, where the first victim was found. Georgia, where the latest victim was found; and Texas, where the only recorded survivors of an attack live; it's also where the investigation started, and was eventually shut down."

Hotch, agreeing, began to assign jobs. "Jason, I want you to go and examine the newest crime scene, see what you can figure out. Take Reid –" he cut himself off, seeing Jason's slight shake of the head, and Hotch could have kicked himself for being so thoughtless.

What was he _thinking? _It had only been two months; there was no way Reid was ready to be back in Georgia again.

Tossing the thought out of his head, Hotch re-evaluated the situation, and continued.

"Right. Jason, take JJ – she can handle the press and get us invited on the individual case – remember, until we find clear evidence that this is Sylar guy, it belongs to the locals. Morgan, Reid, the two of you are going to Odessa; try and find the Bennett family, and see if they'll talk to us. And get the original case files and statements – if this is real, then they'll be a tremendous help. Emily and I are going to New York – we'll see what we can get from the Headquarters, and find out if there are any potential threats. Garcia," Hotch turned to the laptop in the center of the table, where the tech analyst had been listening in, "I want you to examine any camera footage from nearby places in Georgia, see if we can find something on film of the sister or the third party, Gabriel. Also, start picking through the lives of the newest victim and all the previous ones; if it _was_ Sylar, then there's got to be something connecting Alejandro to the other victims – see what stands out for him, both with his time here and whatever he did in the Dominican Republic." Hotch stood up. "You've all been issued SUV's to drive with. Emily and I are accompanying the CJISD team to the city, so we're taking the jet. Morgan and Reid, when you finish your investigation, join JJ and Gideon in Atlanta. If they've already left, then we're meeting in New York to run point. Leave as soon as possible."

Hotch turned to leave, and then turned quickly, looking at all the members of his team, his eyes lingering on the still-silent form of Reid.

"Take care of one another. Prentiss, wheels up in thirty minutes."

Emily gave him a light salute, and waved goodbye to the rest of the BAU.

Gideon gestured to JJ, saying, "After you," and followed her out the door, stopping behind Reid for just a minute.

"Be careful, Spencer," He said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder and trying to smile encouragingly. One corner of Reid's mouth turned up in an attempt to reassure the older agent, and then he turned to face Morgan as Jason exited.

"C'mon, Pretty Boy," Morgan grabbed the keys and swiftly made his way to the door. He turned back when the genius made no response, and frowned slightly. Reid hadn't moved from his chair.

"_Reid."_

The younger man looked up. And attempted a grin.

"Shotgun."

* * *

Outside of the FBI Headquarters, Peter Petrelli sat just next to the armed security personnel who were blocking the door. He had thought about just using the power he had absorbed from Hiro Nakimura to _pop_ in there and surprise Spencer – and maybe force the damn man to talk to him – but, in the end, decided to use his telepathy instead to try and hear when his old friend would next be available.

The truth was, Peter was furious with himself for being so out of it that Reid had managed to completely slip by him this morning. He knew that he couldn't help it – the emotional stress of the past few months combined with the physical toll that staying invisible had on him left the poor young man in a state of near-constant exhaustion, and sleep was rare enough.

An earthquake probably couldn't have awakened him.

However, realizing that Spencer had made it to work, while taking away Peter's first chance to actually talk to him, _did_ mean that the other man was safe – and so Peter settled for remaining unseen, sitting down by the outside wall of the building, and listening in to the minds of Spencer's team, waiting for opportunity to knock. Telepathy was positively _the best_ when it came to spying . . .

He had gasped when he's heard that the BAU was investigating _Sylar. _

_Of all the damn bad luck, _Peter lamented, still keeping an ear out for any mention of where Reid was headed. _He's going to be right in the line of fire._

_No. I can't let Spence get hurt. _

_NO._

_I'll protect him, _Peter vowed, as he suddenly heard that Spencer was being assigned to go to Odessa, Texas.

He thought of his niece Claire, and wondered if the BAU knew that the Bennetts had transferred out of that little town in November; that they would be effectively chasing their tails trying to find someone who wasn't there . . .

"Odessa," he whispered, wondering at all the coincidences in this most marvelous world.

_Probably just want to collect case files, _Peter mused as he stood up, stretching out his abused limbs. _Wonder what they'll find. _

_Guess I'll just have to go with them, _he thought absently as he treaded towards the parking garage. It would be the best thing for all involved; it would give him a chance to talk to Spencer, to warn him of the danger, as well as keep an eye out for Sylar himself . . .

Peter leaned up against a pillar, and watched as Spence and someone else who he assumed was the infamous Derek Morgan walked up to one of the many black vehicles in the compound, and opened the back door. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he saw Spencer smile at the other man and punch him playfully on the arm. They turned and headed back towards the doors to pick up the go-bags they'd left there.

Taking advantage of their absence, Peter tripled his concentration on his invisibility, and scrambled into the back seat of the SUV. Climbing over the top of the leather, he settled in the wide, open trunk.

It might not be comfortable, but this was definitely the best place for him to remain hidden – even if his powers slipped, and they were able to see him for a while, the large seats and the distance from Spencer and Agent Morgan should ensure his presence remaining anonymous.

Peter pushed himself against the back of the seat, and settled in, preparing for a long 8-hour drive.

* * *

Ever since waking up in Mexico, and, consequentially, in New York, Sylar had been very aware of the fact that all of his powers, except for his telekinesis, seemed to be fading in and out, leaving him at times with the abilities of a god, and at other times a man who could do no more than move things without touching them.

Which was why he was so incredibly elated that his supersonic hearing had been 'on' in the last few moments while he had been sitting on a bus stop bench just outside of the Quantico FBI Building, trying to catch a glimpse of his prey.

Without the power to hear a pin drop in an ocean thousands of miles away, the man formerly known as Gabriel Gray would have missed the one extremely telling word that came from Peter Petrelli's invisible mouth.

"Odessa."

Sylar stood up, preparing himself to move on.

_They're going to Texas, then._

_I think I'll go, too. Might get to see that pretty little cheerleader again – maybe, this time, I can . . . 'persuade' her to share that nice little ability she has . . ._

Smiling, the man wearing all black walked into a darkened alley, following a pompous-looking gentleman who was gabbering on his cell phone.

Minutes later, a sleek-looking red car drove out, with a darkly-dressed and darkly-grinning person behind the wheels.

In the alley he'd just left, a man dressed in business suit lay dying, his throat slowly bleeding out.

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Hmmph . . . I dunno, yet. I think I sense a heart-to-heart coming up between morgan and Reid . . . guess I'll just have to keep reminding myself that _this is not slash. _Ay.

Og, for anyone interested; the CJISD team stands for the Criminal Justice Informational Services Department – which, according to my dear friend Google, would be required to accompany an investigation in cases such as this. _The more you know . . . _


	3. Didn't Know

**Author's Note:** Okie-dokie, this scene was fun to write. I got to let my drama-llama loose, and basically had a ridiculously awesome time making Reid sad and Morgan angry and Pete confused . . . *Sighs* If only I could have found a way to put good ole' Sylar in here somewhere (alas, there was no room! More of him next chapter, I promise).

As always, shank you very much for the reviews, follows, and favorites. It makes me all tingly on the inside that people seem to have no complaints thus far (though I'm sure that will change in the not-too-distant future). Specifically, to one review; oh, yes, Sylar _is _bad news, dearie. You have no idea. :)

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Three: Didn't Know**_

* * *

Three hours in on what was looking to be an eight-hour road trip, and Derek Morgan was fighting not to drive the car off of the highway, just to make _something _happen to break the monotony of silence. He glanced over at his ever silent-companion, desperate for words.

"So, Reid – you gonna tell me what's eating at you?"

"Hmm?" The young man was ripped from his thoughts at Morgan's words, reluctantly looking up from the window where his heavy gaze had been focused for the past half-hour.

"You know," Derek continued, carefully keeping his eyes on the road, "bugging you?" He looked at the genius, whose eyes were squinted in confusion.

Morgan sighed. "Taking up your mind? Keeping the thoughts at bay? What's the problem, the dealio – who died?"

When Reid's bafflement was still evident on his face, Morgan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Dude – what's wrong? Something's obviously bothering you."

Reid raised his eyebrow, and turned back to the window, saying quietly, "I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

* * *

In the back of the car, the man that no one could see held his phone out, and, for the third time since they had started driving, dialed the number of his once-best friend. He knew he wouldn't answer – but, then, that was the point.

* * *

Somewhat taken aback by the uncomfortable swearword, Reid was saved from the intensity of Morgan's probing gaze by the vibrating of his cell phone.

Casting a quick glance at it, he saw that it was Peter _again, _and with a large frown marring his normally soft features, the young genius roughly pushed _Ignore_ and shoved the phones back in his pocket. Avoiding looking back at his fellow agent, Reid chewed his inner cheek and returned to staring out the window.

"Reid, man – don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Damn it, don't lock me out. Something's wrong, and I – "

"_Nothing's _wrong."

Disbelieving, Morgan pulled the SUV onto the side of the road so sharply that Reid yelped in fear and clutched frantically at his seatbelt. The older agent turned to his best friend.

"_Morgan_, what the – "

"Reid." The genius looked up, his eyes blazing, and fell silent instantly at the look on Morgan's face.

"I get that you're not a person who likes to talk about things. I do, really. And I also know it's hard to go in-depth with your friends when they also happen to be profilers who you know could give you a psych eval at the drop of a hat. You're one of my best friends, and I care about you and respect your right to privacy – "

"Then let it _go." _Reid snapped uncharacteristically, averting his eyes.

"_But," _Morgan continued, unfazed from the genius's outburst, "this is going too far. Reid, you haven't said _anything_ to anyone in a long time – about Georgia, or . . . or other things." The pause didn't go unnoticed, and Morgan could tell by the tensing of his shoulders that he was quickly losing Reid – that the young man was withdrawing into himself.

"Damn it, man, I'm scared for you. You're short with people, you're impatient and rude – and you're _never _rude. You've lost weight, and half the time, your big ole' brain is somewhere besides where it matters. I get that it's easier to deal with things by yourself sometimes, but back there, you were so lost in your head that it looked like it was physically _hurting _you.

So I don't give a damn if it's uncomfortable, or if you want to stare out the window and contemplate the world spinning on it's axis – we're not moving until you tell me something about why you look like death warmed over today."

Reid's look was a hard mixture of pained and petulant, and, for the longest time, it seemed like he was going to wait Morgan out without saying a word.

Finally, turning so that he was facing straight out onto the road before them, Reid murmured, "I didn't know about Dr. Suresh."

A pause, and then . . ."What?"

"Chandra Suresh," Reid clarified, still looking anywhere but at Morgan. "I, ah . . . I had read his theory on evolution – he hypothesized that someday, people's DNA could spontaneously and randomly mutate into developing strands and sequences that would lead to the culmination of perceived extramundane abilities."

Seeing the confused look on his friend's face, Reid hastily added, "He, ah, thought that, eventually, through evolutionary process, people could develop . . . superhuman powers. Like flight, or invisibility . . ." He cleared his throat. "I didn't know that he had been one of Sylar's victims, is all."

Somewhat frustrated by the fact that Reid was obviously trying to avoid talking about anything too personal, Morgan nonetheless started the car as promised, hoping that he could somehow lull Reid into a feeling of enough security that he might actually eventually reveal what was bothering him so much.

"So, what . . . it upsets you that he died?"

"He was _murdered, _of course it upsets me!" Reid sounded defensive.

"Hey, man, chill! . . . I'm sorry. What I meant was . . . So, did you know him?"

" . . . No," Reid admitted. "Not personally. I just . . . found his theories very interesting, and himself very . . . ingenuitive, I suppose." Seeing Morgan's implying look, Reid cautiously continued.

"One of my old friends and I used to discuss his thesis – the idea of super powers."

"Sounds like a fun conversation." And Morgan meant it. "How come you never talked with any of us about that stuff?"

"It was something Pete and I had a vested interest in," Reid said without thinking, and a terrified look crossed his face. He quickly turned back to the window, vowing not to say another word.

Morgan noticed the expression, and thought, _Aha. _

" '_A vested interest?' _What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that other things fascinate me besides the psychopaths we deal with on a daily basis, Morgan – things that are, frankly, none of your business."

" What about this 'Pete,' huh? Who's that?"

When Reid said nothing after a moment, Morgan probed further. "I don't remember hearing you mention him before."

"That's because I didn't."

" . . . And why didn't you?"

"Because, Morgan, despite the fact that I spend enough hours at the BAU that I might as well just pack up a sleeping bag and _live _there, I don't want the people I work with to know every detail about my life! I seem to remember _you _having a similar thought-process – or don't you remember?"

_Ouch, _Morgan thought. _Classic defensive behavior; the shields go up and the claws come out. _Careful to keep his voice level, it was a moment before he spoke again.

"Reid, I – "

"I'm sorry." Morgan glanced over, surprised by both the apology and the tone in which it was said; Reid sounded woeful, almost desperate. _What?_

"I didn't mean to snap; it was rude, and I apologize. I just . . . I need to keep some things to myself, you understand. Whatever goes on with me, or my mom or dad, or my best friend, or anyone else I care to think of, is private until and unless _I _decide to share it. Please, Morgan?"

"Fine," Morgan nodded.

There was a long period of quiet in the car, and then a slight vibration as Reid's phone once more rang with a text. Glaring at the tiny device, the younger of the two agents violently turned the phone off before shoving it deep into the depths of his satchel.

Morgan tried to remain silent, but, after awhile, the profiler couldn't just sit back and do nothing.

"So, can you tell me something, Pretty Boy?" Reid jolted slightly at the still-new nickname, and directed his blazing eyes towards the driver.

"If this 'Pete' guy is your 'best friend,' why do you keep ignoring his calls?"

* * *

In the back trunk of the car, Peter Petrelli's head shot up, and he stilled his movements as much as possible.

Finally, they were getting to what he wanted to hear. What he _needed_ to hear.

_Why?_

* * *

"I'm not ignoring his calls." The fact that the young genius couldn't even look Morgan in the eyes as he spoke told the older agent all that he needed to know.

"Really? Are you sure?" Morgan knew his tone was uncalled for, but, for the moment, he didn't care. "Because you're certainly dodging _someone's _phone calls, and your caller ID says "Peter" on it, so – "

"Don't profile me, Morgan." Reid's voice was low, and tight with anger.

"Damnit, Reid, I wouldn't _have_ to profile you if for just once in your life you would just _talk to me!"_ Morgan slammed his fists into the steering wheel. Spencer jumped at the noise, and Derek immediately regretting scaring the young man; if he was already on edge, there was no point in agitating him further.

"There's _nothing _to talk about." Reid hissed, shaking off his earlier nerves.

"Nothing _to _talk about, or nothing you _want_ to talk about?"

"Want to – _want to talk about?_" Reid's voice was higher and louder, and shaking with fury.

"You think that this is just another thing I want to _talk about –_ to tell to _you_, a group of profilers, so that you can file it away as just another fucked-up thing about poor little Spencer Reid, the pathetic genius who gets abandoned by everyone he knows? Stupid, weak little Agent Reid with the big fat brain and not enough common sense to keep from getting abducted? Dr. Reid, the laughingstock of the FBI – "

"_Enough!" _Morgan fought to keep the tremor from his voice, but it was hard; what the Hell was the kid _doing?_

"Reid, you can't actually believe any of those things – you just _can't. _They're not true, none of them."

"Except, that's just it. They are." Reid was blinking rapidly, and his eyes only flashed onto Morgan's for a second – but the older agent saw the anguish hidden in those depths.

"I don't have a penchant for throwing pity parties – it's a waste of time, and a stronger person knows how to embrace the good in their lives, accept the bad, and move on day by day."

"Right," Morgan agreed, cautiously.

"I've always been able to take whatever life gave me because I know, in the end, all of the wonderful things I have are superior to anything undesirable I've experienced. I might have my a schizophrenic mother, but she also loves me with all her heart; I see some terrible things on this job, but I know that, in the end, we're helping people . . ."

"That's a good way to look at things," Morgan agreed softly. He paused. "So, what's the problem?"

Reid pursed his lips and looked out the window; everything about his posture indicated that he didn't want to be talking about this right now, but, eventually, and to Morgan's extreme relief, he voiced his thoughts.

"Sometimes, I don't think I can handle everything by myself; the weight of the good versus the evil, the questions of the relevance of cosmic significance, the wondering of the way my life is . . . it's just . . . it's _so much_ to keep a handle on, and, lately, I just don't think that I can keep doing it all alone anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Morgan's tone was disbelieving. "Reid, man, you're not alone."

"I am." Reid's voice was hushed, his tone loaded with pain. "It's not that I think that I can't talk to you guys – I know that you're all there . . . when we're at work. At home, though? I've got no one I can talk to anymore . . . I haven't seen my dad since I was ten years old, Morgan – I don't think he really cares if I had a hard time. I write my mom every day, but I can't tell her anything about our work, not since the Randal Garner case.

Gideon never talks to me anymore – he just gives me this _look_ all the time . . . And I don't know any of the rest of you guys well enough to be okay with talking.

The only person I had to talk to was Peter – I told him everything. _Everything. _He's been my closest companion since we were six, and I've always had him when I needed him – which was a lot."

Reid's voice cracked a bit, and he swallowed tightly before continuing.

"I haven't spoken to him since October . . . We used to call each other three times a week, and then, suddenly, there was nothing. For months. I mean – I – _I_ called _him_; wrote letters, texted, used the phone . . . I even reached out when we had that one case in New York City, went to his old apartment. . . but he wasn't there, and I never heard anything back besides.

At first, I thought that maybe he just got busy – life gets in the way sometimes, and I can understand that you don't always have time to catch up every minute of every day. . . but then it had been a month, and then two . . .

I tried to contact the rest of his family, but . . . apparently his father passed away – something that he never told me, by the way – and his mother and I were never very close, anyway. Even his brother started dodging my calls – first, they actively ignored them, and then they started using filter systems or warning me to stay away. _Warning, _like – l-like I didn't even have the right to see him. My _best friend._"

"Reid . . ." Morgan drifted off, not really sure of how to voice his thoughts.

"I guess I'm used to it, though. People just don't seem to . . . tolerate me for very long. My dad disappeared and hasn't made contact since, kids at school hated me . . . except for Peter . . . But I guess he moved on, too."

"Kid, there's got to be more to it than that – when you love someone, you don't just 'move on' and not contact them anymore. What your dad did? It was cowardly, and that _sucks,_ I get it. But something must have been going on with your man Peter for him to just drop off the face of the Earth like that. You're smart, genius – think about it; he's trying to reach you now, so obviously, he cares."

For a long while, only silence emanated from the passenger seat. Finally, there was a snort, and then, "Sure."

* * *

In the back of the vehicle, Peter himself thought his heart might be breaking a bit when he heard Spencer's response.

Of course, it had already felt a little bit like being smashed into smithereens when he'd heard Reid talking; God, he was such an idiot! How could he have not thought that Reid would find a way to blame himself for this? Of course he would – that's what the stupid genius _always _did; blame himself.

_But it's not your problem, Spence. It's me, and Sylar, and these powers, and that goddamned Haitian . . . _Peter still trembled with rage when thinking about that man, and what he'd done to him – what he'd _taken. _But now wasn't the time to think about _that –_ there would be plenty of time for regret later, once he had taken care of Spencer.

Right now, all he could do was listen, gather information, and prepare for whatever was coming.


	4. The Work

**Author's Note: **Wow, so . . . I watched the season final for _Criminal Minds. _I was _so sure_ that they were going to kill off Reid, and I had my cocoa and tissues at the ready. And then they went and did Blake in instead! I just . . . I can't even comprehend how simultaneously relieved and pissed off I am right now. Glad 187 is still alive (and after so much angst, be still my beating heart!), but damn it, I _liked _Blake! She was neat, and admirable, and mothering, and wise – like a female Rossi. Why does the show have to force out the ones we admire? Not that I wanted anyone to die, or have to leave – I thought this team, even without Prentiss, was doing great.

Stupid CBS. You've broken my heart again. I swear to God, if the reason you let Jeanne Tripplehorn go was anything other than Paget Brewster coming back, I will grift-wrap a grizzly bear and send it straight to your doorstep, you rat bastards.

. . . Uhm, sorry about that. I'm still emotional over the whole thing. Ah . . . anyhoo, here's the next chapter. I wanted to include a kudos to our lost friend, but this story takes place before her time. And, thinking about that, I'm sad again. Oooh . . .

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy! (Or be sad and grim, like I am now.)

* * *

_**Chapter Four: The Work**_

* * *

The rest of the their car trip had passed in unbroken and excruciating silence so uncomfortable that Morgan couldn't help but be glad when they finally pulled into the Odessa Police Station at about 4 o'clock that afternoon.

He looked over as he parked the car. Reid had completely shut down after he had brought up Peter, despite Morgan's many attempts to get him talking again; the young genius had remained impassive, staring pensively out the window, continuing to ignore the pings and buzzing from his phone, until eventually just turning it off and throwing the damn thing deep into his satchel, where it hadn't been heard from since.

Before Derek could say a word, Reid started, shook his head, and began the act of disentangling himself from the ancient SUV's seatbelt. He glanced over at Morgan, asking, "Coming?"

Deciding to let it go, Morgan nodded. "I'll get the bags."

Reid smiled in thanks before saying something about 'confirming their reservations' before darting out of the vehicle to stretch and make some calls.

As Morgan approached the trunk, he made a mental note to himself to try and get Pretty Boy to talk a bit more tonight. He clearly needed someone to open up to, and until and unless he came around to this 'Peter' guy again, it looked like Derek would be that someone.

_Maybe I can get Garcia to look the guy up, call him myself and explain,_ Morgan thought for a second before he dismissed the idea immediately as he popped the trunk and yanked out their go-bags from the clutter. Reid would never forgive him for digging through his personal life like that – God knew how private the kid was.

As Morgan shouldered the bags and closed the back of the SUV, he couldn't help but notice that, with the way the array of junk in the back of the trunk, it almost looked as if there was a human-size cavity in one part – like someone had been sleeping there.

_Funny, _he smiled as he began the hot trek to the station. _I'll tell Reid about it, he'd probably get a laugh._

If this case was going to be as serious as JJ had made it sound, they'd need a to grab a smile while they still could.

* * *

In the station, an extremely attractive blonde officer was waiting to greet them. She shook Morgan's hand, asking, "Agent Morgan, I presume?" At his confirming nod, she gestured to the form of Spencer, still on the phone, and smiled. "The skinny kid just waved and said that you'd be in soon – he's Reid, then?"

"Dr. Reid," Morgan automatically corrected, adding, "And, yeah. Sorry, he can be a bit brusque – we're kinda preoccupied with this whole thing."

"Yeah, I got ya there – if this bastard is actually back, it's gonna put the whole force in an upset. It was bad enough last time, with that cheerleader and the little girl under the stairs, . . ." Drifting off, the officer suddenly shook her head and turned back to Morgan.

"So sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself. I'm Detective Ruby Ridges – and, yes, I've heard all the jokes before, and I don't think they're particularly funny, so don't start, okay?"

Somewhat taken aback by the woman's pace – she almost talked as fast as _Reid_ – Morgan nonetheless shrugged in an amiable gesture, and asked, "Where can we set up?"

"Any idea how long you'll be here?" Detective Ridges asked, as she guided him and a still-talking-on-the-phone Reid to a cramped and dry conference room, where a whiteboard was waiting, and the small wooded table held several boxes labeled "SYLAR 2006 – 2007."

"As long as it takes," Morgan replied shortly, setting down his armload. Seeing the sour look that crossed her otherwise pretty face, he spoke in a softer tone to Ridges.

"We need to collect the old case files, re-examine evidence, and interview a couple of people. We should be out of here in a few days, Detective."

She nodded. "You know, your coming here . . . it can easily be taken the wrong way. If your office had just called, my boys would have sent over everything we would have collected."

"We didn't mean to impugn upon the undoubtedly fine job that you and your officers have done, ma'am." Both of the law-enforcers looked up as Reid, finally done with his phone call, cut smoothly into their conversation. "Our whole field is in the study of psychology, so when we go to investigate it, we look at things in a completely different way from what the police do. Of course, everything you've provided will be of extreme help, ma'am, and we'd be very grateful for any insight you could provide about the crimes – but first, we have to build our own profile, and see how it correlates with your ideas . . . ma'am."

Impressed with his cool head, Derek turned to look at the officer before him, noting her complete change in posture from aggressive and defensive to relaxed and collected. She was even smiling – at _Reid._

"Sweetie, you seem smart and capable – but if you _ma'am_ me one more time, I'm afraid that the FBI will be down one agent today."

Reid grinned back easily. "Understood, ma – Detective Ridges_._"

"Ruby's fine, sugar. Let me know if you boys need anything besides coffee – there's a fresh pot in the break room," she shot over her shoulder, thumbing the direction. "I'll be in my office – ask anyone, they'll show you the way."

As soon as she was out of earshot, Morgan turned to Reid. "Nice job talking her down, man. I thought we'd be dealing with another case of the unfriendlies."

Reid smiled, but it didn't take a profiler to see how strained he was. "It was nothing, Morgan, really. She _did_ do a very thorough job with the investigation, if I remember correctly from reading her reports last year. She just needed to know that we weren't going to undo all of her heard work and take over everything, is all."

"I'm still impressed, Pretty Boy. We might have to have you deal with _all_ the lovely ladies from now on."

"Don't you _dare_," Reid hissed, though the effect was somewhat marred by his grin.

"Now, can we get to work?"

* * *

Uncurling himself from the haphazardly mess in the backseat, Peter's head felt like it was being stabbed with one thousand white hot blades as he straightened up.

He doubled over, his entire frame contorting as his face crumpled and a low, gutteral groan escaped his throat.

_Goddamnit,_ he was tired, he was aching and sore, and he felt sick – like, physically ill.

Wincing, Peter allowed himself a few seconds of hissing in pain before attempting to stand up. Somewhat dazed from the passing agony, he fumbled, double-checking his layer of invisibility and reinforcing it as much as he was able, to the point where he not only couldn't be seen, but probably couldn't be heard or felt, either, if it came to that.

Drained, he allowed himself a few minutes of catching his breath as he decided what to do. On the one hand, it might be smartest to hang around with Spencer this afternoon, and keep and eye on him. Protect him.

_Yeah, right,_ Peter though, as another blinding stab to his temple ignited a fresh wave of pain in his body. _You can't even open your eyes all the way because the damn __**sunlight **__hurts. What good would you be when you finally couldn't take it anymore, and just popped up into appearance in the middle of the floor, writhing around?_

It was a good point, and one he conceded, as Peter slowly made his way, unseen, towards the only hotel that Odessa hosted.

Suddenly, he stopped, just outside of the large potted flowers that adorned the hotel's entrance.

_Sylar._

Peter jolted around, frantically looking for the figure that had haunted too many of his nightmares. He couldn't see the dark hair or those cold, calculating eyes anywhere amongst the crowd, but the young man wasn't reassured.

_I could hear him, I could __**feel**__ him._

Of course, Peter knew the last part was ridiculous; even with his wide array of superpowers, 'feeling' people didn't make the list.

But, still; Sylar was around, and Peter could sense it.

Biting back the fear he felt, the youngest of the Petrelli boys hurried into the cool relief of the air conditioning of the Villa West, and placed his still-invisible hand on the computer at the front desk.

Thinking that he would have to thank that kid Micah sometime for his handy little talent, it only took Peter moments to get the information he needed; there was a Derek Morgan registered in room 216 for the next three evenings, and a Spencer Reid right across the hall in 219.

Sighing in relief, Peter still had to fight to keep his eyelids open as he trekked up the stairs, grateful for his invisible appearance, for the fact that he could avoid looking at his trembling body and the bruise-like bags beneath his eyes.

He would be glad to just be able to get some real sleep, without having to maintain the shield for a few hours – the better to rest his body with.

Standing at the door of room 219, it took the little energy that Peter had left to phase his body out, and pass through the door like a ghost.

His transubstantiation was the power he had copied from Micah's father, D.L. Hawkins – and it was another thing he'd have to remember to thank the family for, if he ever caught up with them again.

_Super-strength from Niki, the ability to manipulate and talk to technology from her son, and the power to phase through solid matter from her ex-husband. What a family, _Peter smiled slightly, remembering, as he stumbled towards the bed.

_My family's good too, though. Have to protect them. Have to . . ._

Disoriented, his thoughts cloudy and distorted, Peter took one more shaky step before tumbling to the floor.

Marveling at the way the whole world had turned upside down, Peter vaguely thought that he shouldn't be lying on the floor, visible and exposed and vulnerable. No, that wouldn't be safe, that wouldn't –

He lifted up a finger, and, waving it slightly, turned the lock, ensuring that he would be left in peace for awhile.

And, despite his best intentions, his efforts to remain awake were in vain. The heavy eyelids of Peter Petrelli drifted closed, and he was able to forget about the wake of his reality for just a few hours more.

* * *

Trolling around in the Odessa heat, Sylar really could have been quite angry with himself for letting Peter slip through his fingers.

For just a brief second, the other man had let his shield of invisibility waver, and he had been visible to the world – and, more importantly, to the man formerly known as Gabriel Gray himself.

He had taken a step towards him, and, somehow, Peter had sensed him (perhaps that damn telekinesis once more?) and vanished again.

Though angry that he was once more devoid of his prey, Sylar refused to worry; ever since he had killed Peter all those months ago in New York, he had felt a lingering connection to the man – a bond, even.

He could _feel_ when the other was nearby, could hear him more acutely, smell him, almost _taste_ him, if it came to that. Not that it would.

All Sylar wanted to get Peter dead one more time, and then play a little bit with that marvelous brain of his, and see if he couldn't walk away with that wonderful, _wonderful _ power.

If he was in a good mood, he might even let Peter regenerate himself back to life.

Maybe.

But first, Sylar had to find out where the youngest of the Petrelli boys was.

And how to get to him.

He sighed, looking around at all of the _normal_ people, going about their _normal_ days, doing insignificant _normal_ things. _Pathetic_, flittered across his mind, and he turned, disgusted, and began once again to look for the biggest game he'd ever hunted.

_Peter Petrelli, you're mine._

* * *

**Author's Endnote:** Note even playing with Sylar is cheering me up. I'm gonna go read some Blake/Reid friendship fluff, see if I can get smiling before my last class starts.


	5. Puzzling

**Author's Note: **Finals are over. I've got a brief week off betwixt my Spring and Summer semesters, and have been using all of that time to clean the disaster zone that is my apartment, buy books and school-related things, answer the reviews and questions I've had spamming up my inbox (thank you for all of the attention, you beautiful sexy people, it made my week!), camping, and reading so many slash stories that I think my eyeballs are going to pop out my head. And I'm only three days into break . . .

Well, anyway, I'm grateful for all the kind words and patience that I've been getting from those reading this story. For cereal, it helps – I always start off slow, but we're finally getting to the stuff I adore. Angst coming up, with a likely side of whumpage (although I'm still going to need some time. You know what they say, no rest for the wicked . . . )

And now, terribly sorry for the babbling, but I have a _Bon Voyage _party to throw for one of my fellow instructors, and then I really do need to, ah . . . watch some _SNL _online, it's been far too long. Happy Thor's Day!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy.

* * *

_**Chapter Five: **_**_Puzzling_**

* * *

"Need a refill, Reid?"

"Hmm?" The young man looked up, clearly having been ripped rather unwillingly from his apparently deep thoughts. He turned to Morgan, who was holding up two bright foam cups, the steam coming from them visible even in the humid Texas air.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his irises as he gestured his full hands. "Another cup?"

"Uhm, yes, thank you." Reid grabbed the proffered beverage and inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans – even at almost 8 o'clock at night.

Morgan smiled at his colleague's brightened face, and leaned up against the desk. "Anything new?"

Reid frowned minutely, not turning around. "Not exactly. I've already re-read all of Detective Ridges' case files and personal notes – there's not much difference between those and the faxed copies I found in the Archives. What there was that _was_ new didn't really connect much more than we already had."

"But there was something?"

Chewing the inner side of his cheek, Reid shrugged. "Barely."

"Well, hit me, Pretty Boy."

A long pause, and then . . .

"Okay," Reid started, stepping back from the board so that Morgan could see. "What I've got is this. From April, we have a prolific serial killer with an estimated total of 37 people – disenfranchising victims who might have never been discovered. Now, basic victimology tells us that the first victim is usually the most important. That would be Chandra Suresh." Reid pointed to the first in the large series of pictures, of an Indian man with a grim smile on his face."He was found stabbed to death in a cab in New York; though left out to rot, the kill was efficient, clean, and cold. Something planned."

Morgan watched Reid's body language, sensing a 'but' coming. "And?"

"And, . . . it doesn't make sense, Morgan. We've seen these victims – most of them are killed deliberately, simply, and efficiently. A swift, cold, and brutal murder. But multiple ones," he gestured to several of the more messy and disturbing pictures, "were crimes scenes that were full of rage, and passion; sloppy. With his leaving the DNA behind for us to find, and even the living victims, we're looking at – "

"A classic disorganized killer." Morgan nodded, unsurprised. "Yeah, I can see that, Reid. So what – "

"Let me finish, Morgan. Yes, the profile screams _disorganized,_ but his first kill showed no hesitation, no uncertainty, no remorse. It wasn't a murder he planned and was scared of and wanted to get over with as fast as possible. It was a _hunt_, one he looked forward to, something he was fantasizing about_."_

"Right . . ."

"But more than that, it was something he was prepared for. More than physically, but mentally and emotionally, as well. Which – "

"Which he wouldn't be capable of unless he'd already had at least one kill, and one cooling-off period," Morgan realized, the thought finally clicking into place.

Reid nodded. "Suresh wasn't his first victim – there's someone else out there. At least one, possibly more . . . " Reid looked vaguely ill, like he was wishing that he hadn't been right. Of course he was – being as correct as he always was would just mean another life that had been extinguished by this sonofabitch.

Morgan patted Reid's back, grimacing at the same thought. "I'll call Garcia, have her look into unsolved murders fitting this MO from before Suresh's death."

"Have her check all the boroughs of New York; odds are, the first kill made this guy snap, so he went for what he perceived to be a more substantial victim; bigger fish, bigger thrill, and if this guy was on some sort of spree, he would want that. He probably killed close to home for awhile, so don't look any farther than Albany, for now."

"How about I just let you tell her all that?" Morgan smiled congenially as he set his phone in the middle of the table and pressed the 'Speaker' button. They both leaned in as the bubbly blonde's voice filled the otherwise desolate space.

"I'm glad you called, my teddy-graham; I was starting to get a sweet tooth."

Chuckling at the expression on Reid's face, Morgan leaned forward in his seat, talking smoothly to the phone.

"As happy as that makes me, Garcia, I'm afraid it's not going to be just us; Reid's here, and I need you to conference-call JJ, Gideon, Hotch, and Prentiss on the same line with us. We might have something."

"Oh, Boo, you know what they say about three being a crowd," Garcia plainly pouted over the line. But she obliged their request, and soon the voices of the entire BAU team could be heard on the small speaker system.

"Hey, guys, hope it's not too late for you." Morgan greeted, only to be interrupted by Reid.

"Actually, seeing as it's not quite nine here, and with the time difference from Odessa to New York being approximately fifty-eight – "

"No, Morgan, we're fine," Hotch cut in, effectively silencing Reid's rant. "We were just about to call it quits for the night – most of the people we need to talk to left before Prentiss and I arrived, so we've just been arranging plans for tomorrow. Jason, how about you?"

"Similar story – no one down here is really that welcoming of the FBI presence, and it's not helping that this has the potential to become a high-profile case. But we've found a few things."

"So have Reid and I – well, really just Reid." Morgan corrected himself when he saw the playful squint playing across his younger colleague's face.

"Good," Hotch replied, his voice sounding far off for just a moment. "Let's debrief before calling it a night. Jason, what do you have?"

"I'm standing at the latest crime scene right now; the pictures were pretty accurate, Hotch, it's a bloody mess. Awful."

"Any evidence, things out of place?"

"Nothing more than the prints they found from earlier," Jason's voice shifted as he began walking around the hotel room, still talking into the phone. "Besides the body, obviously, this room is clean as a whistle. Whoever was staying here packed up everything and left in a nice, tidy little hurry."

"Textbook disorganized – can't control the urges anymore, snaps and kills someone, and then panics, running away with only physical evidence while leaving all kinds of DNA and a body in plain sight for us to find." Reid cut in, running hand through his hair and thinking aloud.

They could practically hear Hotch's nod through the phone. Morgan asked, "Did we ever find out the name of the guy staying in that room?"

"Nothing further than a 'Gabriel' for what they could remember. The only one who saw the guy was the same maid who found Alejandro, and I think she'll be too traumatized to do a cognitive interview for a day or so."

"Probably," Hotch said in approval, and then shifted right back into business-mode. "Anything else relevant?"

"Nothing much, yet. I'm waiting to get the full report from the CSI unit, and JJ's making sure that nothing gets leaked to the media about this. But, for the moment, I think it's safe to say that we might have Victim Number 38."

"That could be helpful," Morgan interjected, trying to keep their focus on the job, and not on the awful things that they were looking at _in_ that job. At the somewhat stunned silence, he quickly finished, "Reid thinks he might be able to link victimology."

"It's not quite that," Reid hastily cut in, shooting a look at Morgan that said he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. "I've been taking a look at the crime scenes, and something doesn't fit."

"You mean _besides _the fact that we're building up to fifty victims, all killed different ways, crossing into multiple line of race, gender, age, and social standing?" Prentiss's voice came in a little harsh over the intercom, and Reid flinched slightly. The two of them had been on guard around each other for awhile now.

He took a few moments to gather his nerves before speaking again. "Yes."

Nodding his head as if to instill confidence, he resumed his earlier tirade. "You're absolutely right, Prentiss. If we take a look at the victimology, we're spread all over the map; by the looks of it, no one is safe from this Sylar. He strikes seemingly randomly, without remorse, and is gone before anyone can get there, leaving no veritable trace of him; a killing machine." There was a slight pause as the young genius hurried to catch his breath. "_But_, if we examine the crime scenes themselves, they tell a different story. Each one of the victims is thoroughly, well . . . _annihilated_ – like he had to reassure himself that they were dead before he could clean up and move on to the next victim. This guy's sadistic, but he's not power-excitation; there's a reason that each of these victims were killed."

"Yes, but not even my supreme skills have been able to find a connecting factor to like all of these guys. One or two, maybe, but even that's a stretch." Garcia's usually bubbly voice faded a little as she admitted being lost.

"Look more into how they were found – read the reports, and we can study the crime scene photos. It's what comes after death that's so important for our unsub; post-mortem, staging, escape, and release, they're _everything _to Sylar."

"Good, Reid," Hotch sounded genuinely proud, and told Garcia to send them all of the crime-scene first-hand supplies in the morning, before he addressed the team's resident genius again. "Anything else before we go?"

Reid looked to be shaking his head, still uncertain about his theory – so Morgan butted in, not giving the younger agent a chance to flee. "Actually, Hotch, Reid has a interesting thought on Sylar's first kill, as well."

Reid glared at Morgan, hating to be in the spotlight, but was forced to speak when Gideon prompted, gently, "Yes, Spencer?"

"It – It's j-just a theory," Reid spluttered out, flushing at the attention. "Uhm, . . . I was p-proposing to Morgan, ah – " they were all cut off by a small snort from Garcia, and Reid's face turned even redder before he continued. "I was _telling_ him that, w-with the way the way our unsub goes about his killing, Chandra Suresh doesn't fit in as a first victim."

There was a silence, and then Hotch, of course, broke it. "Reid, there's DNA evidence directly linking Suresh's murder to this case."

"I know that, I k-know that!" Reid was hasty to clear up his point. "I'm not saying that Dr. Suresh wasn't one of Sylar's victims; I'm saying that there _has_ to be someone else who came before he did."

"What makes you think that?" Gideon's voice was quiet, encouraging. "What did you find, Reid?"

"It's actually what I _didn't _find." Reid paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "We call Sylar a disorganized, if methodical, spree killer. Even though all unsubs require a trigger factor to start killing, it would be more significant for this type of killer; something big would have had to happen to 'Sylar,' and he would have snapped and killed someone, brutally and messily." He bit his lip, forcing a layer of calm before continuing on.

"Look at the crime scene photos; Suresh's murder was thought-out. Angry, yes, but in the heat of the moment? No. It's planned. Methodical. Simple and cold."

"He's too neat to be the first victim," Gideon realized, and the rest of team finally understood Reid's point. "That makes sense – I can't believe we missed that."

"Good catch, Reid," they could hear Hotch's pride even over the static-y speakers as he next spoke to Penelope.

"Garcia, I want you to run a diagnostics for murders in New York City – "

"Going no further than Albany," Morgan cut in slyly, grinning at Reid as he did so.

Hotch pressed on, undeterred. "No further than the city limits, and look for any murder that went unsolved, was found with any sort of DNA, and was left behind in a hurry. Don't go back more than a year, I'd think."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm sure that I can have you the list before you can say 'lickity split,' but you _do_ know that that's going be upwards of a kajillion names, right?"

"Look for scenes that are particularly brutal, and ones where no effort was made to hide the body," Morgan countered, thinking. "The after-kill might be everything to this guy, but odds are that he wasn't expecting to kill someone, so he probably freaked and ran the second it was over. He didn't know he liked it until he killed someone else."

Reid cut in smoothly, "Also, try to counter in any connection to the name 'Gabriel,' Garcia. He used that moniker at the hotel, and odds are that it means something significant to him; a past name, the name of the victim, where the body was found, . . . nothing is too small."

"Clearly, Boy-Wonder, as this is still gonna be a mighty list. I hope you guys don't have plans tomorrow." They all listened to the frantic clacking of Garcia's keyboard as she set upon her tremendous task. Finally, Hotch broke them out of their tired reverie.

"I know it's early, but there's not a lot we can do right now, so I'm giving each of you the go-ahead to get some food and rest. We'll reconvene in the morning, and I want us ready to either open or close this case by tomorrow night."

"No pressure, then?" Morgan laughed as Reid exited the room to fetch Detective Ridges and clean up some of their garbage. He turned to follow the younger man, calling out a 'goodnight' to the rest of the team, when Gideon called his name.

"Morgan, do one thing for me."

The younger agent turned. "Anything, Gideon."

There was a pause, and then, "Take care of Reid; make sure he gets a good meal and some sleep tonight. I'm worried about him."

Morgan grimaced, and leaned in closer. "Yeah, I know. I'll look out for him." Seeing Reid rapidly approaching the room, with a exhausted-looking Ruby in tow, he hastily said, "I gotta go, we'll talk tomorrow," and pushed the button to end the call.

"Anything good today?" the beautiful blonde asked as she took in the mess of boxes around the room.

Morgan swept by, an armload of files he intended to take with him clutched in his arms. "No, not good. But useful. We're making progress."

She smiled up at him. "Good, Agent Morgan. Good."

Bending slightly to adjust the load in his arms, Morgan called out to Reid, "Hey, Pretty Boy, sandwiches on me tonight. Let's go."

"Morgan, I – "

"_Now, _Reid."

Sighing reluctantly, the younger man agreed, and the two agents left the building.

* * *

Reid stood in the hallway leading to his hotel room, a paper bag from the local deli clutched tightly in the crook of his left arm as his hand was fumbling around in his pocket, digging for his keycard.

He reflected somewhat bitterly on his 'dinner' with Morgan, which had actually been more like an ambush. They'd stood in line waiting for their food for a painful ten minutes or so, which the other agent had made a rueful attempt to keep Reid talking from this morning.

_"You did good work today, kid."_

_"It was all of us, Morgan – a team effort."_

_"But you were really on your game. I'm proud of you."_

_". . . Thanks?"_

_A long, uncomfortable silence, and then, _

_"So how are you doing?"_

It had been at that point that Reid had lost his already-tenuous grip on his temper, and had told Morgan not to profile him, that he was _fine, emphasis on fine, _and to leave him alone, right before he grabbed his food, spit out a thank-you over his shoulder, and fled away.

Reid knew that he had been uncharacteristically rude, but he felt like he couldn't help it; the team's mollycoddling had been driving him up a wall for some time. They had always been very . . . concerned and tender with him, but ever since Georgia, the lot of the BAU had been overly protective, overly solicitous, and just overly _there. _

Reid loved his team dearly, but a huge part of him longed for things to be the way that they were; where his friends didn't look at him like he was a bomb this close to going off, where he didn't have to research on the best places to score for those nights he couldn't sleep, . . . where nothing had changed.

He shook his head, finally managing to juggle the bag in his arms enough to crack open the old door, slipping his keycard in his pocket; he always made a point of writing his initials on his own assigned key, so as not to mix it up with Morgan's . . .

_Right. Morgan. _

He would apologize to him in the morning – he knew it hadn't been his partner's intention to get on his nerves. He – all of them, really – were just looking out for him.

_But I'm fine, _Reid thought to himself.

He just needed some food. And rest. He just needed some time to cool his head, and maybe a normal conversation with someone who didn't see him as a trauma victim.

_I just need . . ._

He started, jumping back slightly as he took in the sight of a ragged, weary-looking body lying on the middle of his hotel room floor – a body that he knew very well.

_"Peter?"_

* * *

Peter had been floating peacefully through a torrent of darkness and space, a dreamland where there was no time and no noise – nothing but the endless reprieve of sleep.

That all ended the moment that he heard his name being called by a very familiar, very angry voice.

Groggy, the raven-haired man forced himself to wake up, blinking the remainder of exhaustion form his eyes as he slowly sat up, body shaking from the effort.

God, he was tired. And hungry, He felt like death warmed over – or maybe not warmed over.

Peter just felt like death.

He slowly sat up, wavering slightly, and turned around to see the form of his best friend standing in the doorway, a bag crumpled up at his feet and an irritated expression playing across his face that didn't do an adequate job of hiding the concern in his eyes. He stepped forward slightly, and then, uncertain, the doctor hesitated.

"Peter?" The word was whispered now, anger placed on the back burner out of concern for his friend. Or maybe he was just wondering if he was hallucinating.

"I'm fine." Peter's words of reassurance were somewhat marred by the coughing fit that racked his entire body, his frame contorting in on itself. He waved Spencer back, and said through the painful breaths, "Shut – shut the door."

When he was able to breath again, Peter looked up at Reid, who hadn't moved from his spot. "Spencer, _shut the door."_

The words seemed to bounce right off of his best friend, who still made no move.

Finally snapping a bit, Peter flicked his hand, and the door behind Reid slammed shut with a force. Reid jumped at the noise, and turned around to see the closed partition. He faced Peter again, his eyes wide, and opened his mouth to ask what was going on – but Peter didn't give him a chance.

Using his telekinesis, Peter tugged a chair from across the room, and forced himself to sink into it, slouching slightly, but meeting his friend's eyes nonetheless.

"We need to talk, Spencer."

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Well, I hope that was okay . . . finally getting to the meaty stuff in the story, and I so much prefer writing angst/emotional garbage to case-related things . . . Still, I fear my recent immersion into the Morgan/Reid and Hotch/Reid pairings might have made me skew their characters . . . Gawd, I hope not, this _isn't freakin' slash . . ._ Definitely going to be happier with the next chapter, I guess. Reunion time! . . . Ish.


	6. What We Need

**Author's Note: **I hope y'all don't mind this unscheduled chapter being posted, but I came home from work in a desperately furious mood, and I damn well needed a distraction; and, if I hadn't sat down to type, then I would be singing really loud and pissing off my neighbors again, and, really, who has the time for that?

Apparently, 9/10 of the people on this website are allowed to post song-fics, and that's perfectly chill. As always, I prove to be in the other 10% that, when finally posting my first ever fic that included lyrics from a ballad that means a great deal to me, was reprimanded, reported, and had my fic taken down. Despite my disclaimers, citations, and varying thanks to Christina Perri for her musical genius, the admins of this site said I was plagiarizing (which is apparently illegal, don'cha know?), would be vulnerable in a court of law, and that if I tried to repost "5 Times A Song Made Spencer Reid Sad, 1 Time It Made His Day" in the future, then I would be effectively banned from here forever.

Furious as I am about this, I have nothing I can do at the moment – although, believe me, with the work I put into that story, I'm going to fight this ridiculousness. In the meantime, the fic has been removed, and I only have this one to work on. Which is why you all get more crap to read, because my anger seems to propel my muse. Well, that and killing people.

. . . Geez, sorry about the long note. Just ignore me, I'm in a foul humor. I can only hope it didn't affect my writing, as I really felt better getting this chapter out there. And OOC-ness is purely my fault and unintentional. Sorry in advance.

**Kudos: **I wanted to shout out a brief thank-you to a brilliant writer and one of my friends on here, _tea-is-liquid-wisdom_. When I was talking to her forever ago about writing this, she suggested I have Reid and Peter call one another "Spence" and "Pete," saying that they could be close enough that it wouldn't be weird. I loved the idea, and with her advice, think I managed to make it work. Appreciate the genius, girl. Thanks!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Six: What We Need**_

* * *

It was a rare thing indeed when Spencer Reid was left speechless. His vast knowledge and even more infinite curiosity, along with the eidetic memory and eagerness to teach often lead to the man having more answers than there were questions.

But now, he had no idea what to say, or do, or think. And he was just standing there, in the middle of the hotel room he had rented for the night, staring with his mouth slightly agape at the huddled form of his former best friend, who looked half-starved and deathly ill – Peter Petrelli, who, unless Reid's eyes were failing him, had just _pulled a chair across the room without moving an inch. _

He looked from the door to the slumped figure before him, and back again. _What the Hell was going on?_

"You might want to sit down." Peter's voice was haggard and cracked, croaky with tiredness.

Blinking a few times, Reid finally managed to splutter out, "What – _what_ _was that?_"

"Which?"

_"That. _The – the hand gesture waving-and-moving-the seat thing. That _what._" Spencer floundered, waving his hands around almost desperately, having no idea how to communicate what he'd just seen. In front of him, Peter shrugged.

"I told you, Spence – we need to talk." Reid just stared, and the raven-haired man sighed.

"Spence. _Sit down._"

The words slowly came across Reid's brain, and he moved towards the desk. As he sat, he glanced up at Peter, who was watching him with a faintly amused, if tired, eye.  
"Don't call me that."

"Right, sorry." Peter waved his hand in the air in a gesture of compliance. He winced, dropping the hand listlessly onto his lap, and stared at the floor.

Trying to keep a hold of the many emotions coursing through him, Spencer decided to speak tactfully. "You don't look very well."

"I don't _feel_ very well," Peter answered slowly, softly. He looked up. "I've been trying to contact you."

"I've noticed."

"You did, and yet you've made quite a point of ignoring me."

Reid shrugged, forcing up a mask to hide the hurt those words caused him. "I hadn't heard from you in six months – I thought that shirking each other was just what we did, now."

"I don't remember you having such a dry sense of humor."

"A lot can change in _half a year_."

Peter laughed at that – _boy, did he know._

Mistaking his friend's amusement for derision, a frown cut across Reid's face. "What do you want, Peter?"

* * *

Peter took a moment to gather himself before responding. He looked up at Spencer, his eyes earnest, and began speaking slowly, thoughtfully.

"That," he said, "is a very good question, Spencer. Although, . . ." he paused, breathing deeply, " . . . it's also one with many answers."

Reid just watched him, his face a mask showing no emotion; he knew how Peter worked, knew that the man would start talking once he oriented himself on a clear topic.

"What I want . . . is a lot of things." Peter's eyes shone, their mixture of emotions unclear but still sharp.

"I wanted – I _want_ – to see you, because I miss you . . . I want to talk to you, because I have to apologize . . . I want to discuss this new case with you, because I think that I can help . . ." Peter's eyes darted around for a second, uncomfortable, before he forced himself to meet Reid's gaze once more. "Most of all, Spencer, I guess that I want – no, I _need_ – for you to listen; to give me a chance to make all of this right."

* * *

Reid had never been one to be petty – so even though part of him was very inclined to send Peter out of his room and spend the night fighting off the already-returning cravings, the adult part of him knew that that would be childish, and said to at least let his old friend say his piece – before sending him on his way.

Determined not to act immature, Reid nodded, and held up a hand in a gesture of pause to the other man. He reached down, and pulled the bag with food that Morgan had bought him earlier. He glanced at Peter – he looked sickly to a point of hospitalization, and Reid bit his lip, his feelings of brotherly concern and curiosity clashing harshly with the anger he'd harbored for the man for so long, now. Wishing that there was more that he could do to help, and at the same time being selfishly glad that he couldn't, the genius slid over the bottle of water he'd bought, and tore his sandwich in two, making sure to give the larger half to Peter.

A ghost of a grin flittered across Peter's face, and he gratefully took the offered food, wolfing down most of it with a few bites while Reid picked at his own and mused.

"So . . ." Reid said, nervous about breaking the silence, but too uncomfortable not to. "When you said 'make it right,' you were meaning . . . ?" He drifted off, completely at a loss of how to say what he needed to.

Peter picked up on this, and took a moment to respond. "I mean everything – the last year, as it were. I've got a lot of explaining to do, and I was trying to figure out just where exactly to start." He sighed, and met Reid's curious gaze head-on. "There's just . . . a lot to talk about.

Reid said nothing, refusing to make this easy on Peter, and he finally nodded, seeming to make a decision.

"Spencer, I know that we haven't seen each other face-to-face since my graduation – and that we haven't talked since the summer. I would say that there's no excuse for that, because no one should be treated that way, but – b-but I couldn't help it."

_So what's the excuse?_ Reid thought to himself, and when Peter spoke, realized that he must have said it out loud.

"Spencer, I've had amnesia."

The moment of shocked silence was cut short abruptly when Reid let out a derisive snort of laughter.

_Amnesia! He . . . he can't be serious. That's rich._

"Actually, I am serious – as is the matter of amnesia itself. And I hardly find _the truth_ rich, Spencer."

Reid gazed at him, one eyebrow cocked. _That's odd . . ._

"Isn't it, though?"

_It's like he's reading my thoughts – _

"Thoughts can't really be read, Spence. It's more like I'm _hearing _them – you might be amazed just how much a person's inner voice sounds like the one with which they used to speak."

Reid and Peter both stared, one defensive, one confused. At last, Reid spoke.

"You're . . . you're hearing my thoughts?" _That's impossible – ridiculous. _

"It's neither, actually, as I'm doing it right now with relative ease; a surprise, since I've had problems listening to you before."

_What am I thinking right –_

"Spencer, we're both mature men with a history, so if it's al the same to you, I'd rather not play some ridiculous game of 'guess what the genius is thinking' right now. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I'm listening to you, and I really would appreciate you doing the same for me." Peter's voice had a hard edge to it by then, and he slammed down his water bottle a little forcefully, jerking Spencer from his thoughts. He jumped slightly, and glanced at Peter from between the strands of hair falling into his eyes.

"Right. _Sure,_ Peter. We're just two _adult_ men who haven't spoken to each other in just under a year now. Two _grown ups,_ one of whom is having nightmares every night, the other of whom decided it would be pertinent to break into someone's hotel room. Two _men_ who are harping over the idea of telekinesis and telepathy."

Hurt flashed in Peter's eyes. "You really don' believe me."

Reid shrugged. _It seems like a bit too much – how do I know I'm not just – ?_

Peter continued listening, but Reid's head was suddenly filled with the sounds of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony, and he looked at the other man, amused.

"For someone who seems mighty skeptical of this, you're certainly trying to hide your thoughts fairly well."

Reid blanched at being caught, and then shook his head. What did it matter, it wasn't like Peter was actually reading his thoughts right then, anyway. "I'm still trying to figure out if this is some sort of dream, and if so, how I can switch it to something more pleasant." Reid said uncharacteristically snarkily, determined not to talk about whatever he'd been thinking, and Peter decided to let it go. He tried a different approach.

"There's not really a pleasant way about it, Spencer – it's simple, and plain, such a damn mess. I have superpowers."

Reid's head snapped up. _"Superpowers," _he snorted, "like in comic books?"

Peter nodded, desperate. "Yes. _Exactly._"

Reid just smiled a cold smile without mirth, and, seeing that he was rapidly losing his audience, Peter pressed ahead.

"I'm sorry to have to call them that, but it's the only name I've been able to come up with besides 'abilities' – which was the term Chandra Suresh coined, in any matter."

At the mention of that name, Reid's face was wiped clean of all humor, and he stared at Peter, revealing nothing. His thoughts, however, were running without abandon.

_How can he possibly know about Chandra Suresh's involvement in this case? –_

"I actually didn't know he was part of your investigation," Peter cut in, biting back a smile when he saw Reid's eyes widen in that expressive way that they did. "And how do I know about him? Spencer, I'm surprised at you –_ you're _the one who gave me his damn book."

Still trying to keep his thoughts harnessed, really quite unsure of what was going on, Reid finally spoke. "You mean the one that – "

"Yes, the one you bought me for graduation – the very same."

_And here I thought he'd ignore that as soon as he got home to his party_, Reid thought, not knowing that his 'inner voice' sounded an equal mixture of relieved, confused, and touched. Hearing this, Peter smiled marginally. "I was going to, Spencer. Even though I loved the thing, I didn't plan on opening it any time soon." Swallowing slightly, Peter paused before speaking again, his voice more hardened.

"I've been reading it since September or so – when I started having these . . . dreams. They were strange, even as far as dreams go . . . I was, like – I was _different_." When Reid merely stared at him, he allowed himself to continue, unbidden.

"I was like some guy out of a comic book, or something. I was flying, I was invisible . . . I could walk through walls, disintegrate object, read minds, move things around without touching them . . . all things Dr. Suresh had written about, all . . . _textbook_."

He paused again, forcing back a tide of emotion – he had to get this out, had to explain before his exhaustion overcame him again.

"The dreams started changing, suddenly. Suddenly, I was . . . I was just flying. But it wasn't just _me _anymore, if that makes any sense. Suddenly, . . . Nathan was there – he was flying right alongside me."

_Nathan?_ "You mean like – " Reid fell silent at one look from Peter.

"Yes. But it wasn't just floating or levitating or bouncing around. Spencer, we were soaring over the rooftops of New York City, him and I together – miles above the ground, faster than the wind. And happy. We were so, _so_ damn _happy._"

Peter said the last part bitterly, and stared off, clearly lost in some memory.

Much like he would any victim or unsub, Reid nudged him back onto track, gently, saying, "And then what happened?"

Peter laughed a laugh without mirth. "I was an idiot. I decided to talk to Nathan about them. I just – I _loved_ those dreams, Spencer; loved the feeling of being close with my brother, loved the ability, loved the freedom, the escape, . . . so, when they stopped, all of a sudden, I went to go talk to my brother." He looked up, a trace of guild flashing in his eyes. "I was going to tell him about what we saw, all those years ago, Spence."

Reid swallowed; not even _they_ had discussed the incident that first made them friends – sure, they both knew it had happened (or at least assumed so), but there had never been the need to bring it up. It had just sat there, the base of their companionship, a silent incident to which they could give no words.

He looked at anywhere but Peter as he spoke. "Did you?"

* * *

Very gently, Peter placed down the water bottle, and reached his hand across the table, lightly clasping Spencer's until the other man looked at him. He spoke softly.

"No, I didn't."

Peter wasn't quite sure of what to make of the visible wash of relief that covered Spencer's face, so he instead released his grip on his old friend's hand, and continued speaking.

"I didn't get the chance." He laughed, bitter. "I went up to him while he was working on lobbying, and I tried to tell him about the dreams. But, you know Nathan, . . . " another bitter chuckle, and a darkened look. "He just told me I was being ridiculous, and sent me on my way."

Without meaning to, Reid's sympathetic gaze prickled his nerves, and Peter looked down as he kept going.

"So, I . . . You have to understand, Spence – I _couldn't _lose those dreams, it felt like they were all I had of the brother I used to know and love. I know how stupid it was, but I couldn't help myself, I had to – "

"Pete," Reid interrupted, "What did you do?"

Somewhat floored by the easy use of his formerly affectionate nickname, Peter stammered out the last of his tale in a hush.

"I went to the top of one of our buildings, and I called Nathan to me. I told him that I was going to jump – I'm really not sure what my reasoning was anymore, but I think I was hoping that I would fly with him. He tried . . . he tried to talk me down, but I didn't want to listen, and – and I leapt over the edge."

"_You jumped off of a 30-story building?"_ He could hear the astonishment in Reid's voice, mixed in with the fury and the worry, the shock and anxiety. Peter cut back in before Reid could get too hysterical.

"If it makes you feel any better, obviously, I lived. I woke up in a hospital bed, and Nathan was there . . . he told me that I had tried to kill myself, and that it was lucky I survived, crucial that I fight to keep on living . . . It was bullshit, all of it, of course."

"I remember hearing something about that in the news, last October," Reid said, quietly. "Nathan talked about how he wanted to take care of you even _while_ he was running for Congress."

"Yeah, isn't my brother great? He decided to release my 'attempt' to the media as a plug for his campaign. Couldn't help but notice the spike in his polls when he did."

_Oh, Peter. _"Oh, Peter – "

"Anyway," Peter cut back in, not wanting any pity, "I knew what actually happened – not like I really forgot, but after a day or two of thinking on it, I realized that there was no way I would have tried to kill myself. None at all. I had this – this _vision_ – of me talking to Nathan one more time, and in it, he admitted that he could fly." Peter looked up at Reid, shame burning his cheeks. "I was jealous, Spence. Deep down, I knew that _he_ was the special one all along, just like always . . . but because of this stupid publicity, he would never admit it. And that . . . that drove me insane. For someone to have special powers like that, for someone to _be _special, and to just ignore it? It was wrong. And I decided to call him out on it.

I went up to the top of the hospital, and when Nathan came to visit . . . he just . . . he _knew _where to find me. And, on the roof, I told him he had to know he had powers, he had to admit it, had to _embrace it._"

"And?"

Peter snorted. "And . . . he tried to play me with more of his political crap. It was only when I threatened to go off of the building again that he finally told me that he had flown – but that I had, too." He snorted, and took another sip of his water.

" . . . You didn't believe him?"

"Of course not – best I knew, he just wanted me off of the ledge, because a second 'suicide attempt' wouldn't do his campaign any favors. When I . . . when I told him as much, he just sorta . . . he pointed at my feet, and when I looked down, . . . " Peter swallowed, and forced his eyes to meet Reid's. "I was floating, Spence. Almost a foot off of the ground."

* * *

Reid hadn't wanted to believe this – any of it. A tremendous part of his mind wanted nothing more than to keep being angry at being brushed off by his friend, to tell him to go to Hell and show him the door.

But he had known Peter since they were five years old. He knew the man inside and out, almost better than he did himself. And Spencer Reid could recognize the truth in Peter Petrelli's eyes.

The man wasn't lying, exaggerating, or leaving any things out. He was genuinely perplexed, scared, and nervous as Hell. And Reid could see that.

He could also see the exhaustion in the other man's form; it didn't take a profiler to see the huge shadows beneath the man's black eyes, or the way his frail body was swaying back and forth slightly.

Reid sighed. This was all _so much_ to take in, and the two of them were beat . . . Obviously, _something _was going on, here. And he fully intended to get the entire story.

In the morning. When they weren't both about to collapse from exhaustion.

He spoke quietly, his mind battling internally about all of this – whatever _this_ was.

"I think you should lay down, Pete."

For a moment, there was nothing, and then hands, clutching desperately at his own.

Peter's eyes were haggard, frantic like his voice.

"Spence, I'll sleep, I swear, but – b-but I have to know.

Do you believe me?"

Biting his lip faintly, Reid's thoughtful, hazel eyes met the intense gaze.

"Yes."

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Theraputic. Now I'm going to eat some breakfast, go to work, and not kill anyone . . . Or at least, 2/3 of those things.


	7. The Truth

**Author's Note: **I just want to say a huge and honest thanks to everyone who PM'd me, favorite, reviewed, and followed this story since the last time I updated, what, all of three days ago? For cereal, you guys, all of the encouragement helped, and I got off my mopey throne and decided that, if I can't work on one fic, then I'll start working on another one. I have a whole farm of plot bunnies up here, might as well let some of them see the light of day, right?

Well, anyhoo, y'all are the best. I'm still working on getting my internet back up to snuff, so updates (while still being on Thursdays, I swear it) might be posted later in the day, since I can't lounge around my apartment and do as I please. As it is, I've had to make the arduous trek to the library to get this one up. Sorry for the wait; it's just more of Peter and Reid talking, because, as much as I adore Sylar, there's nothing I can do bring him in again. Yet. He _will _ be back by the next chapter, because I'm starting to go into withdrawal at this point.

Okie-dokie, enough stalling. Onward and upward!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter Seven: The Truth_**

* * *

The morning light brought Reid out of an eclectic tumble of incomprehensible dreams. Visions of flying, shooting fire, and some voice in the background going, "Save the cheerleader, save the world," echoed about in his brain as he blinked in the harsh sunrise.

What had happened? Why did his head feel as if a drill was going through it?

_Had last night been real?_

Glancing over the edge of his bed, Reid saw the curled figure of Peter wrapped up under a pile of blankets in the far corner.

_Right. _He had offered Peter the bed, after their long talk, but the damn man insisted that the floor would be fine.

He was a thoughtful person – it was one of the many things Reid admired about him.

Yawning, the genius stood up, and stretched. He moved towards the cheap, plastic phone, wondering if 5:30 was too early to order room service.

* * *

Peter woke up to the smell of eggs and – praise be! – hot coffee.

It was easier to rouse himself from sleep than this time than it had been for the last few, and the man suspected that it was because the stress was gone.

Well, not gone – there was still so much to share, a lifetime's worth of events to tell to his reunited best fried – but eased, somewhat. Reid had heard the beginning of his tale. He believed him.

That alone was enough to ensure that Peter had slept well, and despite going off of just a few hours, it was nothing difficult to crack open his eyes, and peer at the grease-stained bag sitting atop the table where Spencer sat, sipping on a cup of his favorite dark roast.

Mumbling a "Morning," and somewhat surprised by the rough edge in his voice, Peter accepted the offered second cup from his friend, and moved creakily to the other chair in the room. As he sat, he glanced over Reid, somewhat taken aback by the man's appearance.

Their roles seemed to have switched from the previous day. While Peter's skin was more flush and relaxed, the shadows beneath his eyes less pronounced, and his body no longer trembling from lack of sleep, Reid looked like he was catching ill; the young man's face was growing sallow, and his eyes were red-rimmed, while his whole form was tense, apprehensive, and huddled up on itself, seeming to be constantly shivering.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Feeling alright, Spence?"

Reid, who had been staring off into the distance at some unseeable thing, snapped his attention back to his friend at those words.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You don't look so – "

"Pete." The word was spoken with a foreboding sense of finality. "I'm _fine. _Drop it."

Somewhat taken aback by the tone, Peter broke eye-contact, and paused for a second before making his decision. He stared at the floor, squinting his eyes, and focused on Spencer, only Spencer – trying to break into his mind.

_ – __none of his business anyway, he doesn't know at least I don't think he does – how could he? – I never said anything_

_Wait, is he – ?_

And suddenly, the young genius's mind was filled with the sounds of harping violins and lovely piano notes.

Still reeling from the speed at which his friend thought – it made the pace at which he spoke almost seem _slow_ – Peter glanced up at his friend, amused by the petulant look in Reid's eyes.

"I don't know if you were, but – but don't _do_ that, Peter."

"I just wanted to know what's going on, Spence. I'm sorry if . . . I'm just sorry, I guess."

Reid grimaced slightly. "Look, I'm still not entirely sure what's going on here, but if everything you told me last night is true, then . . . I don't want you – reading – my thoughts . . . I need you to stay out of my head, Pete. Please."

It was the 'please' that got to him. "So, you still believe me?"

Reid glanced at Peter over the top of his drink, one eyebrow raising. "I'm not going to say that this isn't all incredibly strange, or that it's easy, either, but . . . yes. Of course. I believe you."

Relieved, the two men ate in silence for awhile before Reid gathered the courage to ask something that had been bugging him since last night.

"Pete?"

"Hmm?" The other man looked up from his eggs.

"You . . . Last night, you said you had superpowers."

"Yes."

"Super_powers. _Plural. As in, more than one?"

"You already know that."

"Right, right. But, ah . . . what I'm wondering was whether or not telekinesis and telepathy were the limits of those abilities?"

Peter watched as Reid shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "You mean, how many powers do I have, exactly?"

A small nod from his friend, and Peter sighed, leaning back into the chair, thinking.

"You know . . . I think I've lost count."

"You don't _know_?" Reid's voice implied that surely – _surely – _no one could be so callous as to forget the number of superpowers that they possessed!

"Well, it's not exactly something under my control!" Peter defended himself. "My powers are copied from other people; if I meet someone with an 'ability,' then something in my blood goes haywire, and I absorb their ability."

_"_Do they – ?"

"No, I don't just take their power and leave them as some normal human being again," Peter answered the question, know what Reid was about to ask before he could find the words. " . . . My body just sort of . . . _senses_ the ability, and then my genes mutate to replicate the DNA, and, _voila_, I have another superpower. I don't have to be standing near the person, or see them demonstrate their power, or even know about it or want it – I just take it automatically."

Reid could sense a level of sullenness in Peter's tone, and awkwardly moved a hand towards his shoulder. His friend was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn't even notice the contact.

"There was a guy – Claude, his name was – that I met in New York . . . He called me an 'empath,' short for 'empathetic.' Only, instead of being able to synchronize to other people's feelings, I match up with their powers . . . He called me a _damn nuisance_, but the I owe that man a lot – he taught me how to control the powers I already had, and to use them – control them."

"How'd you meet him?"

Peter smiled. "He had the power to turn invisible, and he was snatching someone's purse. When he found out I could see him, I thought he was gonna kill me . . . We . . . talked, and when I found out how knowledgeable he was, I begged for help – everything was so new to me, and he was like some sort of old-hand at it. Took a long while, but eventually he came around."

"Any idea why?"

"That's . . . another story entirely."

A pause, and then, "So you really have no idea what-all's in there?" Reid asked in a playful tone, tapping against Peter's arm lightly.

"Not really. I never know that I've absorbed someone's power until the first time I use it – which is usually under pretty stressful circumstances. Once it happens, and I recognize what the power is and what triggered it, it's a simple matter of keeping my head and staying organized and calm. After that . . . Well, I can sort of use them at whim, pull 'em out like a deck of cards." He finished, and smiled grimly at Reid as he took the last sip of his coffee.

"So, . . . what powers have you used?"

Peter chewed the inner part of his cheek as he thought, a habit he'd adopted from Spencer over the years.

"Well . . . let's see . . . the first one I remember getting was flying, obviously . . . haven't really had much use for that one, so I'm kinda out of practice . . . I can move things without touching them, and hear people's thoughts . . . I have a very slight sense of precognition – I can dream about the future, paint it sometimes, but, again, I rarely use it, so I'm rusty now . . . I can freeze time, possibly move it backwards and forwards – but I'm terrified to give it a try, so I'm never going to practice _that_ . . . invisibility . . ."

As Peter continued to recall, he totally missed the astonished look that crossed over Spencer's face at the tremendous list of powers his old friend had at his fingertips. It was unreal.

" . . . There was this entire family of super-beings that I met, and I got extreme strength, phasing abilities, and the power to communicate with machinery from them . . . then a, ah, girl from Odessa gave me the power to heal myself . . . I got memory manipulation from some Haitian guy . . . there was something else . . ." Peter tapped the side of his head, frustrated, when suddenly a small zap of lightning shot out from one of his fingers, hitting him in the temple.

"Ah! Damnit. That's the other one – 'electric manipulation,' they called it."

"They?"

Peter's eyes darted out to meet his friend's concerned ones from underneath the dangling strands of his hair, and he took a breath before answering.

"Yeah, 'they,' . . . Robert and Elle Bishop, specifically . . . they run this facility that specializes in 'helping' people with abilities, and, ah . . . after an incident in New York, I went to them for help."

Deciding, for the moment, to ignore the fact that there seemed to be some sort of shady company involved with these 'superpeople,' Reid asked instead, "Incident?"

Peter gulped. "There was one more power I absorbed . . . It was from this guy, Ted . . . I ran into him completely by accident, but I'd already learned his story. He was sick, dying – recently lost the love of his life to cancer, and no one could tell him why.

The guy was perfectly nice, at first. But then, he found out that the reason his wife died was because of _him. _Ted had an ability . . . nasty one; he was a human nuclear device."

"You mean, he – "

"Emitted waves of radiation from his skin, and was poisoning everyone around him – and himself. The man could increase or decrease the amount being given off based on his mood; if everything was fine, it was almost like he was a normal human. If, on the other hand, he lost his temper, he could blow up . . . literally."

Reid seemed to be working something over in his mind. "You . . . have this power?"

"I do."

Peter was just a little hurt when Reid unconsciously shifted himself further away in the chair, but he pushed aside his feelings in order to explain.

"I can control it, Spence. My healing abilities make it impossible for me to get sick, and because of them, the radiation never extends past my blood. It's like a shield – and as long as I keep my head, I don't emit a single wave."

But Reid was too practical to just be reassured like that. "Not even you can stay calm all the time, Pete."  
He sighed. "No, I can't . . . but I've gotten a lot better at it since I almost blew up New York City."

Reid's eyes widened, and he pushed aside the little breakfast he had remaining. "You almost – ? _That_ was the 'incident'?!"

Peter nodded. "I kept having dreams about it happening – I was terrified that I was going to be responsible for the deaths of millions of people. So, I went into hiding. I saw no one, talked to no one – except Claude."

Understanding lit in Spencer's eyes. "_That's _how you got him to help you."

"After I told him about my problem, he came to me and said that the only way I was going to survive was if I learned how to control my abilities. Because of him, I'm still here today."

"But that incident . . . ?"

"Right . . . like I said, even though I tried not to, I ran into Ted accidentally one day. I absorbed his power, and I panicked – almost lost it right there. I tried hiding again, but now everyone knew where I was, and I wound up running out to the middle of a street, glowing and ready to blow, . . ." He gulped, the memory sticking in his throat.

"If Nate hadn't grabbed me and flown me above the skyline, then the US would have had a horrible, unexplained nuclear disaster. He saved everyone – including me."

There was nothing Reid could say to that.

"God, Pete . . . What else happened to you?"

Peter chuckled, and turned to his friend. "I told you, Spence, . . . it feels like I've had to cram six lives' worth of experience into nine months . . . I feel like my head's gonna explode – or like I could fall into a coma or two. God, and there's still so much I have to tell you about."

His gaze darkened a bit, and Reid's stomach fluttered, his nerves rattled.

"What is it, Peter?"

His friend clenched his hands tightly, and shifted. "It's about this case that your team's investigating. The 'Sylar' murders?"

Reid nodded. _Now what?_

A ghost of a grin flittered across Peter's face at that thought. "How much time before you have to be at the station?"

Reid glanced at the clock. _6:17._ "I've got a little more than an hour. Why?"

"Because," Peter said, leaning back and bearing in for a long talk. "I have information for you. Lots."

Not even hesitating for a moment – he knew that they could discuss more, later – Reid pulled out a notebook and a pen.

"Okay. Where do you want to start?"


	8. Gabriel, Gabriel Gray

**Author's Note: **I'm apologizing now for having been so awful about responding to reviews. Life, etc., is hectic all the time, and I was more interested in using the little free time I had to do homework, and then catch up on this bloody fantastic Reid/Tobias series by QuirkyRevelations I stumbled upon weeks ago. And then more homework.

But, as always, I'm back – and I brought a chapter with some Sylar in it. _Finally_. Ugh, I was starting to feel like I was neglecting the poor boy. But all's well that ends well, right? Hee.

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Eight: Gabriel, Gabriel Gray**_

* * *

When Reid arrived at the Odessa Police Station later that morning, he could feel a massive headache forming. Peter had spent over an _hour_ loading him up with everything he thought could help them catch their unsub – well, not really an 'unsub' anymore, as Peter had given him an identity.

Gabriel. Gabriel Gray.

_Such an inconspicuous name, _Reid thought to himself somewhat bitterly as he trudged inside the building, heading straight for the coffee maker. _Probably looks like a regular guy next door, nice and quiet and polite. _

_And a serial killer. _

Of course, they weren't certain what Sylar looked like – Reid was just assuming, based off of the description that Peter had given him; apparently, he had come face-to-face with their . . . perpetrator . . . several times. From the way Peter had shied away from that, the profiler in Reid had been smart enough to know not to pursue it. He had just kept taking notes.

Sylar – Gabriel? – had once been a relatively normal, happy man. Until Chandra Suresh contacted him, and changed his life forever.

* * *

_"How do you know that?" Reid asked, looking up from his paper. _

_"Dr. Suresh told me – said that there were a few meetings, at the end of which contact was cut off, and then this Gabriel guy lost it and started killing people."_

_"You got to speak to Chandra Suresh?"_

_"No – he was killed before I knew anything. I spoke to his son, Mohinder."_

* * *

Mohinder Suresh – the name had sounded familiar to Reid's keen ears, and he had recalled rather quickly that they were supposed to interview him at some point. Being the child of what they had assumed was their first victim, they hadn't yet called off the meeting – not until they had found the _actual _first victim.

Reid poured a cup of boiling hot coffee into the mug from earlier, and leaned his back against the table, taking a moment to stir sugar into his drink and muse.

* * *

_"Why is Sylar killing these people?"_

_"Because . . . because they have – they have abilities. He takes them." Peter looked vaguely sickened by the notion._

_"Takes them?" Reid had jolted slightly. "You mean, like –?"_

_"No. Not like I do. As far as I know, Sylar's only power was telepathy."_

_" . . . Is that where you got it?"_

_Peter swallowed tightly, and his voice burned with loathing. "Yes."_

* * *

It hadn't taken a profiler to see that Peter clearly didn't want to talk about his encounters with their suspect, he had turned the questioning back to the case, making a note to ask Peter about it later – but not as an FBI agent. As a friend.

Reid was bumped rather unceremoniously from his thoughts when a hand clapped onto his shoulder, and he jumped about half a foot in the air.

"Whoah, kid, easy! It's just me!"

Without looking, Reid could tell form Morgan's voice that the other man was grinning hugely. Whatever. They always liked to make fun of his 'Bambi' tendencies. He forced down the urge to snap at the older man before he turned to face him.

Something must have showed on his expression, because Morgan immediately went from teasing to apologetic.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I was calling your name, but you musta been lost in that big old brain of yours, because you just kept staring at your coffee . . . I didn't mean to scare you – I just wanted to tell you that we're preparing for a conference call in an hour, so we should . . . go over the case . . ." Morgan's voice trailed off awkwardly as Reid stared at him wordlessly.

"Reid? . . . Reid, you okay?"

Snapping out of it, Reid shook his head rapidly. "No – no, I mean yes. Yes, I'm fine, I mean – I was just thinking – sorry to drift off, I was just – I mean, it was about the case, but I was also starting to have an idea – ?"

"Reid," Morgan cut in, quietly putting an end to the younger man's beginning ramble. "What's going on?"

For just a moment, Reid contemplated what it might be like to tell him.

_It's not that anything's wrong, per se, my friend. It's just that last night, upon entering my hotel room, I discovered that the man I once called brother had broken in and collapsed in pile on the floor – of course, he came to rather quickly, and ever since then, I haven't left his side , because the man looks like Death and he's nervous about me being alone – because of this case we're investigating, which he's had some keen insight on. How, you ask? Oh, well he's met the unsub, don't you know? Apparently the reason Sylar rips off people's heads is because he likes fiddle with their brains and absorb their superpowers – which they evidently have. So does Peter._

_Oh, and did I mention that I'm craving again? Because I am. _

Reid shook his head, trying not to let what he had been thinking show up on his face.

_Right. __**That**__ would go over real well. _

Of course, he'd already learned that with Morgan, it was nearly impossible to hide things, to get away with saying nothing. The man was good. Especially when it came to Reid.

Deciding to give just a little, Reid looked up and met Morgan's eyes.

"I, ah . . . I decided to talk to Peter last night."

Morgan's expression softened. "Reid, man – that's great."

He said it a bit like a question, because, after all, he didn't know Peter too well – or at all, really – and couldn't really clap Reid's shoulder over it, because he hadn't met the man. Still, he tried to keep a smile on his face, if only for his young friend's sake.

"It's always smart to keep the people close to us around, Reid."

"I wasn't really going for 'smart' there." _Right. I was going for 'forced,' because, no matter what, he still showed up without my asking._

"Well, anyway, . . . it's a _good _thing. When you've taken the time and effort to make a relationship last as long as twenty years, it's worth fighting for."

"Yes, otherwise said cultivation would be non-sequitor, correct?" Reid's use of college-level words was a signal to the other profiler that the matter was now closed. He glanced one more time at Reid, who was pinching the bridges of his nose, as if in pain.

"Reid? Are you – ?"

"Just a headache, Morgan. I'm _fine._"

The two of them walked into their little makeshift evidence room in silence.

* * *

Left in the hotel room to his own devices, Peter had instantly lain in the bed that Reid had left behind. Although he would never make his friend sleep on the floor, Peter was nonetheless ecstatic that he had a few hours to curl up in the sheets and catch up on that last, wonderful piece of rest he had been missing out on.

The thought of closing his eyes and drifting off was no longer an iffy idea – it was tangible, desirable even, now that Peter had unloaded everything he needed to on Spencer. Now that his friend seemed once more to be his friend, now that he _knew_ the kind of person that they were looking for, _now_ that he _understood_, . . . the overwhelming ache of nerves and anticipation, of fear and not-knowing, were fading away.

And Peter found that he was quite drained from it all.

Feeling not the least bit guilty for it, he wrapped himself up in the previously made duvet, and buried his face in the pillows. _God, _it was nice to be in a bed again.

Peter's eyelids fluttered shut, and his mind began to drift into that twilight dreaming land.

_The scent of the Ocean Breeze Air Freshener. _

_The soft hum of the water pipes._

_A small, light creaking sound._

And suddenly, Peter jerked awake.

_That sound, the creaking sound, _had not been a natural one.

And Peter knew it, because, just over the light buzz of noise in the room, he could hear the faintest whisper of the mildest thought from a voice that made his blood run cold.

_Pee—eeter._

He turned, dreadfully, to face the door – and found in it a man he had hoped to never have to see again.

Sylar.

Dressed in all black, a maniacal grin playing across his face as he took in the other man's shock and fright, the man formerly known as Gabriel Gray waved his hand mockingly

"Hello, _Peter_. Good to see you."

The options flew through Peter's head in a flash – he could turn invisible, and try to hide – phase through a wall or something.

He could try to talk Sylar down. _Yes, because the last time you tried that, it went __**so**__ well – he tried to slice your head off. _

He could fight.

The choice was made for him when suddenly, his body was ripped from the bed, and slammed roughly onto the floor. Forcing himself not to make a sound, Peter's hand darted quickly up to his hairline – he could feel blood, as well as that warm, tingly feeling that let him know that his body was already healing the wound.

He glared at Sylar. "Mistake," he said, and launched himself forward.

He focused on sending all of his energy to his hands, working up the hot surge that would build an electrical charge – hopefully one big enough to knock the other man out, so . . .

_So what?_ The annoying voice in Peter's brain piped up._ So you can flee? That's not going to work, Peter, not forever. You know how this has to end. _

But he wouldn't let himself think of that. Right now he had to focus on –

– _getting air, _because suddenly his windpipe was being crushed.

While he had been battling his inner turmoil, Sylar had taken advantage of his otherwise directed attention and used the opportunity to tighten his hold on his telekinesis – using his powers to lift Peter into the air, slam him against the wall, and choke him slowly, lifting only one finger and pointing it at the younger man.

It was as if the hand was accusing him. _You, _it seemed to say, _you've failed already. He's going to get your power, and then he'll kill you and leave you dead, and he'll go after Nathan and Claire and –_

_NO!_

That animalistic, instinctual part of his brain howled, and Peter forced himself to fight the invisible bond taxing him to the wall.

He lifted one arm, and used his own telekinesis, sending waves of energy as powerful as he could back to the form in front of him, forcing him off.

Sylar flew backwards from the power behind Peter's attack, and almost gracefully arced in the air before using his feet to kick off the wall, landing steadily and instantly looking back at the youngest of the Petrelli boys.

"You'll have to do a lot better than that, _Peter."_

_With pleasure._

As Sylar took another step closer, Peter slammed his eyes shut and embraced the humming deep within his bones. When he heard the smallest, quietest curse slip from Sylar's lips, he knew that he had been successful in turning invisible.

"You, know, _Petrelli_, I seem to remember you doing this before." Sylar taunted, flicking a wrist and sending the bedside table lamp tumbling to the floor.

As the broken pieces of glass began to lift in the air, Peter recognized what was happening – just as he had all those months ago, Sylar would shoot the sharp fragments all over the room until one of them landed in their mark. Like he had last time, when –

_when he killed me._

Fear had Peter freezing up for just a moment, and he couldn't help the sudden urge to flee once more.

But then common sense took over, and Peter remembered the ability he'd gotten from D.L. Hawkins. Breathing out, he redirected as much energy as he dared from his shield of invisibility to focusing on eliminating his physical presence.

And when he could no longer feel the light breeze on his back, Peter knew it had worked; he was invisible, and out-of-phase – like a ghost. He was effectively rendered invincible against Sylar.

For the moment.

A faint shiver worked it's way up through his metaphysical spine when a particularly large glass fragment shot through where his chest would have been, and another one sailed by his jugular.

_Peter Petrelli, the man who made short work of cheating death. _

Wary, he watched as Sylar cast curious eyes around the room, looking to see where his quarry was.

_Over here, you son of a bitch, _he thought bitterly, trying to find an angle to leap at him.

Peter was stronger than Sylar – he had more powers, and the element of surprise on his side, to boot.

If he could just get close enough to wrap his hands around that skinny neck, Niki's super strength would make short work of his windpipe, and the man formerly known as Gabriel Gray would be no more.

Not a few months ago, thoughts of murder would have been foreign to the gentle young man – would have shocked him to his very core. But now it was life or death. Him or Sylar. Peace or more senseless bloodshed. Sense, or sensibility. A new beginning, or the end.

And Peter _so _wanted the new beginning.

"I should have known you would be the same kind of coward as the rest of your family."

The hissed taunt sent Peter's hackles on edge, and the sudden wave of fury caused a small ripple in his shield – a momentary flicker, a fraction of a second in which he was suddenly, horrifyingly visible.

And it was exactly what his foe needed.

The shark-like grin filled Sylar's face, and Peter ducked, rolling out of the way before the man could throw something worse at him. Standing to his feet instantly, Peter charged forward, hands outstretched.

He was going to _kill_ him.

_He was going to kill him. _

_He was –_

being lifted off the ground once more, slammed against the ceiling with what felt like the force of an army; an invisible wind, as strong and as impenetrable as a wall held him tight in the air, cutting his mind off from his body. He was pinned flat, he couldn't move, could barely breath, and had no option but to watch as Sylar held his left hand held flat in the air, using it to hold him tightly, and lifted his right index finger, pointing it at Peter's head.

The horrible, familiar feeling cut through his temple, and Peter screamed as he could feel the beginnings of his forehead being sliced open.

He might be able to heal quickly, but the _pain _was indescribable, and Peter could feel rivulets of blood running down his cheeks like tears. His eyes slammed shut – he couldn't bear the sickening, victorious grin that Sylar was giving him full-blast.

But with the rest of the world invisible to him, there was nothing to stop Peter's imagination from running wild.

_Sylar was going to kill him. He was going to kill him dead, and leave him dead. Then he would take Peter's power and he would be unstoppable. A Superhuman without limits, reason, or morals. He could do anything he wanted, have everything he felt like, kill anyone he damn well pleased –_

And Peter's eyes shot open – how could he know all this and stay here and do nothing? Sylar could hurt anyone – he could go after Nathan, after Claire . . . he could destroy the world, and –

_it would be my fault. _

_"NO!"_

Peter screamed with air he didn't know he still had in his lungs, and gave an almighty _push _with his mind – he didn't care what happened to him, but he knew that he couldn't let his family be hurt because of his freakish powers.

Like a tornado, power rolled off of his body in a tremendous wave. Sylar was thrown forcefully back against the opposite wall, his hold over Peter broken. Several pieces of furniture in the room crumbled and exploded, the rest flying up in the air as if caught in a powerful gust of wind, and were swirling around chaotically. Lightning bolts erupted from Peter's fingers, blackening the walls, singing the carpet, and framing Peter in the midst of the beautiful, stormy mess.

Chuckling slightly, Sylar rubbed a forming bruise on his chin from his collision with the wall, and he watched the men before him slowly devolve.

"Almost _impressive_, _Peter_," he said as he took a step closer.

"Stay back!" Peter screamed, a bolt of blue electricity flying past Sylar's head, just missing singeing his ear.

Not flinching, Sylar continued to step forward. "Do you think you scare me, _Petrelli_?"

Another lightning bolt was the only answer he received.

Sylar raised his own hands, and pointed them at the objects still flying around the room crazily. With a lazy flick of his wrist, the lamps melted into piles of silvery mire, and dripped uselessly to the floor. Peter cast a startled glance at this, and then remembered himself and turned back to face his enemy.

"_That," _Sylar said, doing the same to the remote control and radio clock on the table, "is one of my _favorite_ powers."

He turned, almost absently, to see the younger man before him looking like he was starting to tire, and Sylar grinned again.

"Did you know that I can de-materialize things, _Peter_?"

Watching him warily, Peter struggled to pay attention, but it was hard – the tremendous stress on his body of holding multiple powers at once, as well as the exhaustion of only having had a few hours sleep, were taking their toll on him. It was all he could do now to fight to stay awake.

"That means," Sylar said, taking yet another step forward, savoring when Peter flinched back slightly, "that I can take things down to their atomized state." He took another step, and then he was close enough.

Peter's entire body exploded with pain – he was being ripped apart into a million tiny pieces, into _shreds_, into _smithereens_. _He was being picked apart by tiny hands and tossed aside, he was burning ,he was freezing, he was being ripped open –_

And then it stopped. Sylar was still walking towards him, talking.

"_That's_ what it is, _Peter_. _That,_" he continued, punctuating each word with another step, another jolt of pain, "is how you do it. Does it hurt, _Peter_? It looked like it did."

Mockingly, the other man leaned down next to Peter, who could do nothing about it. His body was totally drained, and it was all he could do to stay conscious anymore.

"Don't worry, _Peter_," Sylar said, running a hand over the shuddering younger man's face.

"I won't kill you that way. I like you – I'll make sure you die in as little pain as possible."

And with that, his hands were on Peter's throat, and he began to squeeze.

Peter's entire body jolted, and his hand reached up feebly, scratching and scrabbling at Sylar's face, trying to force him _off_, but –

_but the edges of his vision were rapidly darkening, and he was so tired, so hurt, so scared and so confused – wouldn't a little rest be wonderful?_

_No, no, don't think like that! I can't, I __**shouldn't**__, I have to get out of here, I have to warn Nathan and . . . Claire . . . and . . . and Reid . . ._

His entire stomach twisted, like there was a hook pulling at the back of his navel, and then, with the sound of wind rushing in his ears, Peter closed his eyes, and was surrounded by the blackness.

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Cliffhanger, hanging from a cliff . . . Hah-hah. I'm evil.


	9. No Alarms, No Surprises

**Author's Note:** Two weeks of solid rain, acing my first test in my Sociology class, and what appears to have been a very successful date have put me in a very good mood; which sucks, because this is supposed to be the angsty part of the story, and I can't seem to get handly on my inner-sociopath. (Of course, that might also be because watching Season Three of "Heroes" is putting me through the emotional wringer; why, why WHY?)

But, anyhoo, I tried to get some more of the case-stuff out of the way. I'm always weird with these scenes; as anyone who writes CM stuff can assure you, profiling is _hard_. Yech. I'll be glad to get to the emotional stuff again next week. I love me some Peter and Reid. :)

And, on that note . . .

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter Nine: No Alarms, No Surprises_**

* * *

As it was approaching noon, Reid found that, between his worry for his friend, his lack of sleep, this high profile case, and his admittedly growing cravings for a certain illegal substance he happened to have stashed in his satchel, it was getting incredibly hard to focus. Which was why, when Morgan came in and announced that they were going to touch base with the team before taking a break for lunch, he was extremely relieved, and turned to collect the notes he'd made while Morgan dialed.

"Speak, and then I'll give you a treat."

"Baby girl, you've got me and Reid – who else is on?"

"Oh, sugar, you can pretend you want the others all you want, but I know that it's me and _just_ me, my sculpted chocolate Adonis." Garcia's teasing voice slipped easily out of the speaker on the telephone as she flirted with Morgan.

Again smiling at Reid's vaguely sickened expression, Morgan pulled the speakers closer to him. "C'mon, you silly girl."

"Pooh," she pouted over the phone, but nonetheless, they heard dialing, and soon the voices of Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, JJ, and Gideon also filled the tiny room.

"Morning," Hotch said, his voice scratchy and tired. He didn't have to tell the team that their investigation in New York wasn't going to well – the way he sounded was proof enough of that.

"What have we got?"

"Okay, sir, first of all, I have to let you know that I clocked in some serious overtime last night – actually, I still am, I haven't left yet – trying to compile a list of possible first murders that took place somewhere in New York."

"Alright," they could practically _hear_ Hotch rubbing his eyes. "What have you found?"

"Well," Garcia said, hesitant, "Ah, sir, despite working my famous Garcia Magic and drinking enough coffee to put Starbucks out of business – "

"Garcia."

"I've narrowed down the list to 1,356 possibilities – all of them are 'vicious' murders with only one victim, and they all have _some_ sort of connection to the name Gabriel, like you asked. Either it's the victim's name, or their suspects, or the place where the crime occurred; seriously, I pulled up _everything_, you guys." Garcia sighed. "But it's huge, and I don't think we can all collect on the extra pay at the same time, or Strauss might finally blow a gasket. Tell me how we narrow this down!"

_Gabriel Gray, is he anywhere on that list? _Reid thought, hating himself for not being able to speak up about what he knew. But he couldn't betray Peter's trust, not when he had come to Reid and only Reid to talk about this.

* * *

_"How am I supposed to relay this to my team without telling them about you?" Reid had asked as he stood up._

_Peter stood with him. "I really don't know, Spence. But, if you can . . . please, please don't mention me – I can't do that to my family, to the people I care about."_

_Understanding, Reid nodded and hugged his friend goodbye right before he moved towards the door. He almost didn't catch Peter's last words as he left._

_"Who would believe it, anyway?"_

_Shutting the door quietly, Reid pretended that he hadn't heard a thing._

* * *

Reid was dragged back from his thoughts as the conversation around him continued.

"I might have something," Gideon said. "JJ and I just got back from our cognitive with the maid at our hotel . . . She still couldn't give us much, but we did get a basic description. Tall, well-built but thin, short black hair, dark eyes, very pale, and she said he talked 'fancy' – I'm assuming she means 'refined,' which points to the likelihood that our unsub is educated. Also – she reported that the man responded multiple times to the name 'Gabriel,' and also that the sister, Maya, called him 'Gabe,' which means –"

'That _his_ first or last name either is or was Gabriel-something-or-other." Morgan finished. "It probably has nothing to do with the victims at all."

"Garcia, can you incorporate that into the parameters?" Hotch asked.

"I can, sir – but it's going to take awhile, and even with the physical description, I'm going to have to go case by case and see what fits."

"How long?"

"Maybe an hour . . . ?"

"Fine – we'll keep discussing. But, Garcia, stay on the line."

"Sure thing, Boss Man."

They heard Garcia continue typing, and Aaron guided the conversation on.

"Reid, Morgan – you've been working on victimology – have you found anything yet?"

_Yep. They're all genetically evolved homo sapiens with comic-book-worthy superpowers._

Reid shook the thought out of his mind as Morgan responded, "Nothing concrete yet, Hotch."

"Well, then, bounce what you _do _have – theories, ideas, songs . . . ! Morgan, I don't care if it's solid yet – that's the whole point of a conference call – to _confer._"

Somewhat taken aback by his boss's brusqueness, Morgan began speaking.

Normally, Reid would have been contributing in, but his eye had caught on something – and then his mind had taken off running with the idea. He stepped closer towards the evidence board, thinking.

Noticing the genius's silence, Morgan abruptly cut off what he was saying, and turned.

"Reid?" he asked, his eyes following the young profiler, who was moving as if in a trance.

But Reid didn't answer. He stared, taking in the entire collection of pinned up photographs as his brilliant mind attempted to work past something.

_What is it, exactly?_

_We have 37 – no, now 38 – victims. All killed brutally, all but two found dead on arrival. Not a single one of them ever said a word – except for the first survivor, he managed to say "Sylar" before he coded on the ambulance . . . that's how this case got it's name . . ._

**_I_**_ know that these people are being killed because of their abilities . . . but how did the police connect them? DNA, maybe, but they'd first need to be assured that none of these people were assistants to Sylar . . ._

_Actually, how did Sylar even find these people? There's not really a way to post on Myspace that someone has developed supernatural abilities . . ._

_All were killed brutally, but there was never any problem with . . ?_

"Identification!" Reid suddenly gasped, the answer hitting him like a load of bricks.

"What, Reid?" Morgan asked, clearly as confused as the rest of the team. Reid turned to him, eyes sparkling with victory.

_How could I have not seen it before?_

"Morgan, look at this," Reid said, gesturing frantically at the evidence board. "Look at the victims."

Obligingly, Morgan stepped forward, and examined the pictures and documents before him.

"Reid, what are you seeing?"

"_Look," _Reid pointed adamantly, frantic to explain.

"Reid, _what?"_

The younger man took a deep breath before launching into an explanation, desperate to get it out before the idea was lost.

"We have 38 victims, Morgan _Thirty-eight. _All of them were found dead, or died minutes after being discovered. The two who claim to have survived an attack refused to cooperate with police. The only information we ever got from a victim was the name itself, Sylar."

Morgan nodded, encouraging Reid to continue his spiel. _What was he getting at?_

"How were we ever able to identify the victims?"

Something was niggling in the back of his mind, but Morgan – and the rest of the team – were still lost. "How do you mean, Reid?"

"Well, of the thirty-eight victims," Reid said, moving a few pictures separate from the rest of the group, "these eighteen were carrying some form of ID on them – and we used the licenses or state designations to put names to faces."

"Affirmative," chipped in Garcia's voice from the phone. Reid nodded, satisfied.

"But then _these_ twelve," he continued, "had no available form of ID on them. They were, however, found in their homes or places of business – and we were able to use either family or witness testimony to confirm their identities."

"And then _two more,_" he said, pointing out a few of the smaller DMV photographs, "were with someone when they arrived, alive long enough to identify themselves."

Morgan thought he might be starting to see where the kid was going with this. "What about the last six?"

"None then had any sort of ID on their person, and they were all found in remote locations that couldn't be tied to anyone directly." Reid pulled away a couple of photos. "_These two,_" he said, holding them up, "we had to use dental records to identify."

"Alright," Morgan said slowly, still trying to catch up.

Reid sighed, sensing that he still wasn't making himself clear. "My point is, you guys," he turned back to the board, "_how_ did we ever get names for these last four victims? We knew that Marcus Beck, Elizabeth Giles, Rosalie Perry, and Amanda Gibbons were all _Sylar_ victims because of the matching DNA tying the scenes together – but how did we ever get their _names_, or even know that they were missing persons?"

Suddenly, it dawned on the rest of the group. Gideon spoke.

"You're saying that these people should have remained John Does, but, somewhere out there, there's a record of them that might tell us how they were found?"

"Exactly," Reid said. "We don't know _just what _connects all of the victims, or why Sylar chose them." _I do_, interrupted his brain, before he cleared his throat and continued speaking again. "But what we do know is that, out there somewhere, there was some way to track at least three of our victims – which is more of a connection than with any of the others we've found thusfar. I think it's worth looking into. Garcia, can you tell us how we got names on these three?"

"Already on it, cupcake, it shouldn't take but a few minutes."

Actually, it was less than that, as not thirty seconds later, they heard Garcia's excited squeal through the speakers.

"Hot to trot, Boy Wonder, you're the next Holmes!"

Reid leaned in. _This is it. _"What'd you find?"

"Okay, get this; not just our three suspicious victims, not just our first ones or last ones, but _every single of the thirty-eight of them_, were identified, whether primarily or confirmatively, through a small sector of an international DNA database."

"Which one?" Reid asked, already computing the possibilities.

"The Human Genome Project."

"Wait a minute, I remember that name, . . ." Morgan cut in. "Didn't we have to have shots or something for some 'genome analysis' thing at work?"  
"Yes," Reid answered, "We did. The Human Genome project was a study specifically lodged to enhance knowledge of human genetics. The ultimate goal was to be able to sequence and code all three-billion nucleotides found in DNA strands, and to use that as a basis for connecting certain diseases to certain traits. In their fifteen-year allotted time slot, the project grew to tremendous proportions, and eventually, the public was invited in to share samples of DNA through saliva or hair. Even blood donations were accepted. A database was built compiling general evidence, and from there, researchers could access any information they needed for studies and proofs. The project was concluded two years early, in 2003, but is still updated by smaller groups and a credit in many papers and articles."

"Take a breath there, Boy Wonder," Garcia smiled over the phone. "Of course, our genius is right about all that; I actually remember being asked to give a print sample for the study as part of my recruitment to the FBI, and I had to look into all sorts of conspiracy theories."

Hotch coughed, and Garcia took the hint.  
"Right. Anyways, what I was saying I've found is this; not only were all of our victims participants _in_ the Human Genome Project, but it appears that all of their files were flagged and linked to a separate study, one conducted by – _get this_ – Chandra Suresh."

"Our 'first' victim," Gideon confirmed, and Reid nodded as it all hit him. _Why didn't I make that link before?_

"What was he doing looking into these people's files?" Hotch asked.

"It looks like, as Reid said, he was taking advantage of the database for an alternate study, conducted out of India; he was looking into . . ." Garcia trailed off, and Reid knew why; _it's so hard to even wrap your mind around – of course people thought that the guy was insane. _

"Baby girl?" Morgan prompted.

She snapped out of it. "Right, ah, sorry. Apparently, Suresh was looking into the idea of genetic evolution through rapid cell growth, and he wrote a thesis on his ideas of the biological stimulants that could occur."  
"Garcia, you're sounding a lot like Reid." Hotch almost smiled.

"That makes sense; I was reading off of this guy's book jacket. His paper was called _Activating Evolution, _and, long story short . . . Suresh was under the impression that certain, more evolved life forms, could develop . . . superpowers."

Suddenly, Morgan turned to Reid. "Isn't this what you were talking about in the car?"  
Reid blanched as Hotch asked, "What?"

"On the way here, Reid and I were talking about . . . things, and the subject of Suresh came up for a bit. Reid mentioned something about a superhero theory, and then I completely forgot until now."  
"Reid, you knew about this?" Even Gideon sounded a little angry.

Reid held up his hands, even though no one but Morgan could see him. "I didn't _know_, you guys. A . . . a friend and I used to debate the merit of Suresh's theories, and I mentioned that to Morgan. I had no idea that his studies could have been connected in any way to this case; I didn't even know he consulted the Human Genome Project database for information – otherwise, I certainly would have said something!"

"Alright, son, calm down – I didn't mean to sound accusing," Gideon calmed him. "I'm sorry, Reid."

Reid muttered something, but nodded acquiescence. He turned back towards the phone.

"Since we've already agreed that there must have been at least one more victim before Dr. Suresh, Garcia, could you run the possibles from earlier, and see if any of the victims were also participants in the Genome project?"

A brief pause, and then a tinny voice replied, "Okay, I've still got 18 people on the list."  
"How many of those deaths occurred _before_ the murder of Suresh?"

"Six."

Reid hummed quietly to himself, trying to figure out a way to lead them to the correct case without mentioning Peter, when Morgan came up with the solution.

"Babe, were any of those crimes violent – I mean, more than usual? Were any of them . . . messy?"

"I've got it!" Garcia's voice was finally excited again, and everyone on the lined tensed, waiting.

"Brian Davis, age 36, found bludgeoned to death in a watch-repair shop in the Lower West Side; COD was blunt-force-trauma with a crystal paperweight."  
"Watch shop . . ." Reid said, thinking. "Gideon, didn't you say that 'Sylar' was the name of a designer watch brand?"

"That's right," Gideon remembered. "Garcia, did the police have any suspects?"

"One possible – the owner of the shop. He disappeared right after the body was found. Name was . . . Gabriel. Gabriel Gray."

_Yes, _Reid thought.

"We've got him," Morgan said, voicing Reid's thoughts.

"His DMV photo matches the description you gave us, Gideon."

"Send the photo over, and I'll get a positive ID from the maid." Gideon sighed, adding, "But I think it's safe to assume that this is our man."

"See if you can find any DNA matches that can tie Gabriel Gray to the Sylar cases," Reid added, his mind working at lightning fast speeds. "He might be on record somewhere, and it would help to have physical evidence to back up our theory."  
"On it, 187. I shall call back in a jiffy." Garcia clicked off, and Hotch addressed the rest of the team, delegating assignments.

"Gideon, after you get a positive ID, I want you and JJ to put Gabriel Gray's face on the news; don't address him as a suspect, tell people that we just want to question him as a witness. Then, start building up a preliminary geographical profile."

"Shouldn't I – ?" Reid interrupted, surprised; geographical profiles were _his_ thing.

"Reid, they're on location – it makes more sense for them to try and figure out where this guy's hiding right now. I want you and Morgan to gather up any relevant case information, and get ready to head over here as soon as possible; Prentiss and I are going to build a profile for Gabriel Gray, you two will build one for _Sylar_, and we'll see what we can match. After that, we need to look into all the other people in the Genome Project that were flagged by Suresh – the could all be on Sylar's hit list."

"Wait, sir!" Reid piped up before they could hang up.

"With all due respect, I think Morgan and I should stay one more night; there was one report of an attack at the local high school. A cheerleader, Jackie Wilcox, was one of the victims – but another one, Claire Bennett, escaped. The DNA matched it to the Sylar cases, and I think it might be relevant to talk to the survivor – maybe perform a cognitive?"

"You think that would be relevant?"

_Peter said that Claire was supposed to die, but that Sylar killed the wrong person. Why?_

"Yes – she might have seen or heard something, and we need all the help we can get if we want to catch this guy."

Hotch sighed. "Fine. Take the rest of the afternoon to get ready, and be on the plane first thing in the morning. And, Reid?"

"Yes?"

He paused. "Get some rest."

Forcing himself not to wince, Reid nodded. "Yes, sir."

There was a click, a dial tone, and then the phone was silent. Morgan turned to Reid. "Now what, kid?"

"Lunch, I guess," Reid answered, still bent over the boxes on the floor. "Then, we can write up some questions to ask the Bennetts. If you want to go talk to them, I can pack up the relevant stuff here, we're at the hotel before ten, and we can get on the jet by five."

"Sure you want all the paperwork-stuff, man?"

Reid just looked at Morgan, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay, message received. Sounds like a plan. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Actually," Reid said, setting down a stack of files, "I was thinking I'd just go for a walk, clear my head . . . I'll pick up some food on the way back."

"Suit yourself," Morgan called, grabbing his jacket and walking towards the door. "See ya in a bit!"

Reid finished organizing a few more papers, and then made for the door, as well. He slammed to a halt when he stepped outside, and saw someone stumbling down the road – a familiar someone.

_"Peter?"_

* * *

Blind with fury, Sylar stormed around the mess of a hotel room, adding to the chaos by throwing the few non-broken things, slamming his fists against the wall, and trying not to scream.

_Of all the goddamn, miserable luck!_

He'd had Petrelli – he'd _finally had him, _and then –

then he was _gone. _What the Hell?

Resting his head against the faded wallpaper, Sylar closed his eyes, breathing heavily and trying to think.

He knew how Peter's power worked – it was why he desired it so much.

_All he had to do was meet someone who could –_

And Sylar could have kicked himself for missing it.

Hiro. Hiro Nakimura. _Of course._

The little Japanese man could bend time _and space_ – who was to say that he was only limited to moving from the future to the past? What was to suggest he couldn't also spontaneously snap his fingers and appear in a different spot in the world at a given moment?  
_Petrelli must have met him at some point, then . . ._

Just one more power he would absorb when he finally killed the brat.

_But how, now?_

Sylar wasn't a stupid man – he could recognize that Peter had more powers than him, powers that were more diverse, more powerful, and, most important, under his _complete _control – whereas Sylar still had moments where he was nothing but a telekinetic human at best.

_So how . . . ?_

His eyes traveled around the destroyed room, landing on the packed duffle bag of the man who was actually renting the room.

_Ah . . . _

_Precious Dr. Spencer Reid. _

A cold smile formed on his face, and Sylar began thinking of a new plan.

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Oh, dear . . .


	10. I'll Keep You Safe

**Author's Note: **Good morrow! I got up extra-early to scuttle this off, since I'm literally in school until three today, and then literally working until midnight right after that. And I couldn't very well _not _update, right?

Since I'm always slow in responding to them, I just wanted to take a quick sec to thank all of the lovely people who've Favorited, Followed, and Reviewed this story; I would serve all of you the soup I just made, but, ahm . . . well, most people don't like chicken gizzards, and that's what kind of chowder it is. Yum?

Anyhoo . . . here goes more of my fantasy-land. Peter and Reid and Sylar, oh my!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy, no?

* * *

**_Chapter Ten: I'll Keep You Safe_**

* * *

_"Teleportation?"_

Reid didn't mean for his voice to carry such a tone of disbelief, but his mind was going into overload from everything that had happened over the course of the last 24 hours. Reunions with ex-buddies, superpowered killers, drug withdrawal . . . and now he'd found his best friend wandering the streets of Odessa with nothing short of terror in his heavy eyes, talking about how he'd just been attacked by the very man they were chasing and had only barely escaped with his life.

In his defense – it _was_ a lot.

Bleakly, Peter nodded. "I think so – th-that's what you'd call it, right? I – I just closed my eyes, and then I felt this p-pulling in my stomach, and then . . . then I was at the police station, and you were coming out. That's . . . that's teleportation?"

Reid nodded. "You never told me that that was one of the powers you had."

Peter looked sick. "_I _didn't even know. No one I knew had that power – at least, not that I saw."

He gulped his water frantically, and Reid watched, silent. The two of them were sitting on the outside patio of the first deli they'd stumbled upon about an hour ago, Reid half-carrying Peter on his shoulder. They'd both ordered sandwiches, but neither had touched them, instead opting to push their food around on their plates and drink endless cups of water and coffee in the scorching Texas sun.

And now they sat still, Reid wondering how in the Hell he was going to tell his team that their unsub was in Odessa, and Peter thinking vaguely of how close he had come to dying for the fourth time.

"Are you okay?" Reid asked finally, knowing it was a stupid question, but unable to help himself; the silence was unbearable.

Peter shoved his food around on his plate, and spoke thickly.

"I will be . . . once I leave."

They locked eyes, and for a moment, it was like they were both elementary school children again; one with a blazing and determined stare, the other one just as hard, but pleading, as they each waited for the other one to cave.

Reid caved.

"You can't go."

"I have to," Peter said shortly, shaking his head dispassionately. "Sylar's here because of _me._ He's following the BAU because of _me. _He was in that hotel room _because of me. _He wants my power, and he wants a fight – and I'll be damned if I'm going to let someone else be at risk because of _me_ again."

"But we can protect you –"

Peter shook his head. "You have no idea what you'd be going up against. Sylar isn't a normal man who wants to be reasoned with; he _likes_ killing people, and he doesn't want to be talked down, interrupted, or stopped. And _you guys_," his eyes flashed significantly, and Reid knew he was talking about 'normal' people, "don't stand a chance where he's concerned."

Reid kept arguing. "You could stay hidden – Sylar doesn't have _X-ray vision, _he wouldn't be able to see you if you're invisible!"

"Spencer," Peter said, trying to explain gently and not let his growing frustration show, "staying invisible isn't like snapping your fingers; it takes focus, and willpower, and _so much goddamned energy. _I'm exhausted after just a few hours, and today, that nearly cost me my life. So, no, that's not an option again. The only way I can make sure that everyone stays safe is to get out of Odessa, and take Sylar with me."  
"Everyone?"

Peter swallowed roughly, keeping his voice in check. "You, of course – I don't want anything to happen to you, Spence. Or your team . . . And Claire, my niece . . . she used to live here, and – and even though her family moved a month or two ago, I need to make sure that _he_ doesn't stay around and ask questions . . . it's a small town, and people talk." He looked up at Reid, his eyes swimming with emotion.

"If I stay, people are going to die."

Reid knew his friend was right – but it didn't stop him from hating that fact. He blinked, trying to force his poker face back on, to not reveal his hurt at having to lose his Peter for a second time.

He looked down at the table as he spoke. "What are you going to do?"

Studying his friend, it was awhile before Peter replied. "I'm going to leave as soon as possible – today, even – and try to be obvious about it. Hopefully, Sylar will follow me out. I'll lead us to someplace far away, and quiet, and I'll . . . I'll finish this."

His voice cracked on the last words, and Reid could feel his heart break; no matter what had happened, Peter was a soft soul above all else, and he wasn't made for killing people – he was too _good._

"You don't have to do this," he whispered, telling himself he wasn't doing it out of selfishness – he _couldn't be._

Peter knew what his friend was thinking, even without having to listen in to his mind, and it crushed him. He reached over, placing a hand on top of Spencer's, pretending not to notice the tiny flinch his friend gave as their skins met.

"I won't be gone long, Spence. Once . . . Once Sylar can't hurt anyone anymore, I'll come back."

He leaned towards his chair, and continued, trying to speak in a more light-hearted manner. "We've still got a lot of catching up to do."

At that, Reid unconsciously started rubbing the crook of his right elbow, staring into the depths of his coffee cup.

"Spencer?"

When the young man didn't answer, Peter cocked his head slightly, and tried again, louder.

"_Spencer_."

When the genius looked up, it nearly broke Peter's heart. The other man's eyes were cloudy, far-off and hazy – his mind was somewhere else, somewhere that no one so young should ever have to be.

Reid was gripping his right arm so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. And he was shaking.

Peter frowned. He knew those signs, he _recognized _them. He'd been a hospice nurse – well, still was, technically – and had been trained especially to recognize _those signs. _When someone was pale, and sickly, and not eating. When someone couldn't sleep, was constantly cold, and could turn moody in an instant. When someone was craving.

When someone was using in the first place.

When he asked again, it was with trepidation, hoping, _praying_ that, just this once, he was wrong.

"Spencer."

He jolted at Peter's raised voice, and finally seemed to re-orient himself. Shaking his head to clear it, Reid finally looked at Peter, and the two locked gazes.

"How long?" Peter asked, gesturing to his friend's arm he still held in a vice-like grip.

"What?" Reid asked, feigning even as his head snapped towards his hands, and he guiltily released his hold before looking back at his friend.

"Spence, . . ." Peter sighed, forcing himself not to snap, "drugs. Yours . . . H-how long have you been . . . using?"

Reid wrapped his arms protectively around his midsection. "I don't think of it as 'using,' Peter."

"But you are," the other man countered. "Maybe not often, you seem fairly stable, but the fact is, it's been more than once. So, I'll ask again . . . How long?"

"Why don't you just _look in my mind_ and see for yourself?" Reid sneered.

Peter, however, knew that his friend's attitude was a defense mechanism, and refused to be drawn into an argument.

"Because I would rather ask you, Spencer. What happened?"

Reid's expression was a tumble of emotion after emotion, before he finally seemed to settle himself, and he avoided Peter's eyes. "Nothing that's any of your business, Peter, okay?"

"Spencer – "

"No! You weren't here, _you don't know!_ You can't just up and vanish on a twenty year relationship, and then come back and expect everything to be exactly the same whenever you try to come back." He looked up, his face blazing.

"It doesn't _work_ like that, _Peter."_

Now beginning to lose his temper himself, Peter leaned forward. "Are you saying that this is my fault, somehow? You're blaming me for your own problems?"

Now Reid leaned in too, equally angry. _"I never said that." _

"It sure sounded like it."

"What the Hell would you know?"

Shocked by his normally docile friend's language, Peter decided to resort to his telepathy. He knew how Spencer worked, knew that the young man wouldn't talk about something so personal, even less so now that he'd been riled up. _Maybe he's thinking about it – if I know what's really on his mind, I can help him before I have to go. _

Try though he might, though, Peter could only hear music playing in Spencer's mind – the same concierto, over and over and over again. He met Reid's eyes, and was almost saddened by the level of victory in them.

"I told you to stay out of my head," the young genius said simply.

"I never thought I would need to go back in there." Peter whispered.

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, Reid bristling and ashamed in equal amounts, and Peter trying to figure out how not to lose his best friend of nearly two decades.

It was actually the waitress who spurred them.

"Another cup, boys?"

Her voice came suddenly in the silence, and it was right behind Spencer, causing the young man to jump a mile into the air. Peter watched, amused, as Reid, now quite flustered, shook his head 'no' and began to pack up his things.

Peter nodded apologetically to the waitress, and began to push his own silverware away. "I think we're gonna call it a night, love. Would you bring us the check?"

Reid kept his frown on as the pretty young lady sidled by him, careful not to be bumped. He turned to Peter.

"Now what?"

"Now?" Peter sipped his coffee, and tried to organize his thoughts. He looked up at Spencer, and kept his gaze open, soft, and unaccusing.

The gaze of a friend.

"Now, we part ways. For awhile. I've told you everything I know so that your team can keep hunting Sylar, if I fail." His face darkened at those words, and Peter barely suppressed a shudder.

"Not that I intend to," he added, somewhat bitter.

"And us?" Reid's eyes were shining with nervousness.

Peter looked at him, one of the few people he cared about left in the world, and bit his tongue. Like it or not, Spence was an adult, and the choices he made regarding his . . . recreational activities . . . were none of Peter's business.

But that didn't mean he had to be okay with them.

"I just finally got you back in my life, Spencer. I'm not going to lose you again – to _anything._" He looked significantly at Reid's right arm, and the young doctor flushed, shame burning his cheeks.

"If – _when _I come back, we'll talk. For more than just a meal's worth." Peter tried to smile reassuringly, but he was sure his strained expression fooled no one. He wasn't looking forward to having to duke it out with his oldest friend in the world.

Not again.

The corners of Reid's mouth turned up in exchange, and he dropped a few bills on the table. The two men stood, and exited the restaurant together.

"Should I take you back to the police station?" Peter offered, even though exhaustion was settling in his limbs, making them feel as if they were going to fall off.

Reid shook his head. "You need to get somewhere safe and rest, Pete. I'll be fine. Besides, my team doesn't know that you're here, and I'd rather not take an hour and a half to explain." He nudged Peter's shoulder slightly to let him know he was kidding.

Peter smiled, happy, if tired. "Go catch bad guys, Spence."

"Go get some sleep, Pete."

They stepped forward and had a brief, strong hug, before Reid turned swiftly and began the trek back to the station.

Peter watched him leave until he could no longer see the other man, and then began heading towards the train station, making sure he stayed visible.

_Come and get me._

* * *

Reid let loose a long sigh as he climbed the stairs to his hotel room much, much later that evening. It had been a miserably long day, full of planning and writing and having to bounce questions off of Morgan, who had been even more frustrated than the genius gave him credit for.

Both had been distressed to learn that not only were their potential victims, the Bennetts, no longer in Odessa, but they were no longer in _Texas –_ or anywhere in the whole United States, for that matter. They had up and vanished, which irked Garcia to no end, as even her supreme genius with computers couldn't find the information.

Which, of course, could only mean one thing; Witness Protection.

Somehow or other, the CIA was involved with the Sylar Cases.

It was enough to give anyone a headache, trying to figure out how deep this went – who else knew, what else had been done, and, most importantly, just _what was going on. _

Which was why Reid kept rubbing the bridge of his nose as he slid his keycard into the door, and opened it slowly, looking forward to nothing more than a few aspirin and a cup of ice-cold water. Or hot coffee.

The young man frowned slightly as he stepped into the darkened room; Peter had told him what had happened with Sylar here, explained the mess – but really, it looked like a cyclone had hit. Things were torn off the walls, and he could see the shattered remains of the lamp lying on the floor.

His headache came back at full-force.

"Good lord," he mumbled under his breath, dropping his satchel and reaching blindly for a light switch to survey the full extent of the damage.

"Just kill me now."

_"If you insist."_

Something hard and heavy crashed into his skull, and Reid slumped to the floor, unconscious.


	11. Where Is He?

**Author's Note: **Fine, fine, fine . . . I felt kinda bad about that little cliffhanger I left y'all with at the end of the last chapter. Also, I was granted some unexpected free time this week, and I thought, "What the Hey?"

This whole thing is pretty short, mostly because it's filler; the next chapter is going to be where all of those warnings from below finally start coming into play. Funzies . . . ? (Or maybe not, I've never done whump before.)

Anyhoo . . . happy Tuesday!

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven: Where Is He?**_

* * *

Derek Morgan was just walking into the hotel that evening, after yet another long day at the Odessa Police Department. After Reid had finished helping him write out an interview to give to the Bennetts, he had gone to their listed address, telling Reid to pack up their supplies and then call it a night.

Needless to say, he had been duly irritated when the Bennetts could not be located – and more than a little confused and suspicious. What the hell was the CIA doing with potentials from a relatively small serial killer case?

It made his head hurt just to think about all of the potential roadblocks they were going to run into with Witness Protection . . . and all the rest. Should they place all people on Suresh's list under wraps? Should they make the picture of that Gabriel Gray go international? Who should they call for help with location?

"Damn it all," he murmured, resisting the urge to bang his head against the elevator doors as they slid shut. He leaned back against the inner walls of the box, and just thought quietly for awhile.

He needed a plan. First, some sleep – no, coffee. Coffee first, then sleep. He had to get up at five so that he and Reid could start their drive to Georgia. _Actually, maybe I should skip the coffee and talk to Reid first . . . he didn't look so hot after lunch today._

_Okay, new plan. Talk to Reid, eat something quick, get some shut-eye, and then up at five. _

_Can't wait,_ he thought sarcastically, rubbing his eyes as the elevator skimmed open on the second floor, and he wearily made his way towards his room.

He stopped abruptly at the sight on the floor, by the room right across from him.

Two heavy cardboard boxed, each full to bursting with paper, had been dropped haphazardly on the floor, their contents scattered about. A few file folders lay open and empty and torn, as if someone had looked through them in a hurry. But that wasn't the bad part.

The bad part was that the door to room 219 was wide open, hanging off its hinges and inviting anyone who cared to see the wreckage inside.

Morgan took a step in the door, and reached over flicking on the light.

_Holy shit. _

It looked like an avalanche had passed through. Wallpaper was hanging shredded off the walls, everything that could be had been smashed and was lying broken on the floor. The bed was upturned, the two chairs were in pieces, and Morgan couldn't discern a single item that had been left untouched.

But what made his heart stop absolutely was the keycard left on the floor, floating limply in a small pool of blood.

He bent down to pick it up, hoping he was wrong.

He wasn't.

"_Reid,"_ he whispered, recognizing the small, sloppily penciled initials on the piece of plastic.

* * *

Several miles away, most people didn't give a second glance to the exhausted, raven-haired young man slumping in a bench by the train station and trying his best not to fall asleep waiting for the Tram.

That was fine with Peter – he had a lot of thoughts to sort out, and would rather have everyone ignore him.

Well, everyone except for one person.

_Where __**is**__ he, anyway?_

He hadn't been quiet about where he was going, and he'd been extra careful to stay visible and move around a lot while he waited to leave. Surely Sylar knew where he was by_ now._

Peter's foot tapped up and down rapidly as his nerves coiled, thinking about the man he had to kill – or die trying.

_I'll never forget that look in his eyes when he was cutting Jackie Wilcox open . . . like he was free, like he was __**enjoying **__it._

He shivered, remembering it.

_His eyes were so cold, but so alive . . . he smiled, I remember that smile. _

_And his voice. _

Peter had only heard Sylar speak a few times, but he knew it was a sound he would never forget. The man's deep, rich tone had sounded dead as his thoughts did; monotonous, effortless, elementary . . . As though there was no reason he shouldn't be doing what he had done, as if it was simple and obvious.

It was _almost_ nice, _almost_ persuasive.

It was _almost_ understanding.

It _was_ horrifying.

Peter jumped as he heard laughter ring out behind him, thinking for a minute that his foe had decided to end it all right here, that he had been found at that the face-off with Sylar was starting at last. His head swiveled around . . .

. . . only to see an older man, laughing as he held hands with adorable blonde grandchild.

Sighing, Peter turned back around, and laid his head in his hands.

_God, when will this __**end**__? _

He almost laughed. It hadn't even _started_ yet. He wanted to see a light at the end of the tunnel, but first he had to kill a man.

_Kill a man._

Peter didn't think he was ever going to be okay with that.

He watched as the older gentleman from before walked by, swinging his granddaughter in his arms. The girl squealed with laughter, clapper her hands and blasting a huge, toothy smile all round her.

Peter caught that smile, and couldn't help but be reminded of Claire.

_Claire, _he thought, watching the beautiful toddler wave at him. _You're doing this to keep her safe. Claire, and Nathan, Matt and Mohinder, . . . even Spencer. _

_It's not about __**you**_, he reminded himself forcefully as he wiggled his fingers back at the little girl.

_It's abut them – about keeping them safe. That's __**your**__ job. And this is what you have to do for it – for them. _

The small child and her grandfather disappeared onto the waiting train, and Peter realized that it was the same one he'd been waiting for.

He stood, stretching his aching legs as he glimpsed around one last time.

_Where __**is**__ he?_

* * *

Reid head was a veritable symphony of throbbing, white-hot pain stabbing at his temple when he finally, slowly began to wake up.

It was dark all around him, and the young genius opened his eyes slowly, blearily, as he tried to orient himself.

_Where am I?_

More importantly, why did his head hurt so incredibly badly?

Gingerly, Reid felt along the back of his hairline, and came back, wet and dark.

_Blood. _

_Why am I bleeding?_

The memories were fractured and only half there, but Reid nonetheless began sorting through them, trying to figure out what was going on.

_Morgan and I . . . sorted papers – no, no, . . . __**I **__sorted papers, Morgan went to interview . . . someone . . . got to the hotel, had big boxes, heavy boxes . . . put them down, had to find . . . something . . . what was it? Oh, the key! Right, right, . . . had to get the key . . . got in my room . . . messy, going to have to talk with Peter . . . where is he?_

_Then what?_

Reid shook his head, frustrated with himself and the big, blank space inside of his usually sharp and agile mind. He regretted the movement not a second later, as his head exploded in pain once more.

Groaning, Reid leaned back, pushing himself into a sitting position, relishing the cool wall behind him, as it soothed his head minutely when he rested on it.

Reid allowed his eyes to drift closed for a moment before suddenly, the rest of the memory came rushing back at him.

"_Just kill me now."_

"_If you insist."_

And then pain, so much pain, before blackness.

Reid shivered, wrapping his arms protectively around his waist and drawing his knees up to rest under his chin. Trying to keep himself as small as possible, yes – but the room was also very cold, and Reid was trying to conserve his waning body heat.

He looked around the room, trying to figure out what it was.

A relatively good-sized enclosure, all four walls and the ceiling and floor appeared to be made of solid, smooth cement. The only break from that was, on the wall across from him, a huge, smooth, dark pane of glass that was easily ten feet long.

_Like some sort of enormous interrogation room, _Reid though, feeling his alarm level rising. He continued to look around, although still not vacating his spot, his head hurt too much.

There was a door, way over on the wall to his left – but no visible handles, and it seemed to be of solid steel. Besides that, there were some exposed pipes in the opposite corner, and something just to the left of him that made Reid's heart stop.

A medical bed – the sheets were hanging off haphazardly, but he could still see the outline of the leather restraints underneath.

Reid began trembling, his brilliant mind coming up with all sorts of possibilities as to what that bed – _those straps – _could possibly be used for.

A slight shifting sound had Reid on full-alert again, and he whipped around, looking for the source of noise.

His eyes landed on what they had missed earlier, because of it's dark color and absolute stillness.

A man.

A quiet man, dressed in all black, leaning against the opposite walls, watching him with an eerie look on his face.

Reid gulped.

He was tall, pale, well-built and lithe, and seemed very relaxed. His arms were crossed over his chest, and a faint smile on his lips clashed in a most disturbing way with the frown marring his otherwise handsome features.

Their eyes locked, and Reid felt a shudder work its way down his spine as the man he presumed to be his abductor spoke in _that voice. The one from before. _

"You're awake, Dr. Reid."

And suddenly, everything clicked.

Reid stared at the figure before him, all of the pieces falling suddenly, harshly, and horrifically into place. His voice came out in a whisper.

"Sylar."

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **I know, shocker, right. XP


	12. Panic

**Author's Note:** I know, I know . . . pretty late in the evening for an update, but, ahm . . . well, no sense dancing around it. Mt boyfriend brought over the Gameboy Color version of _Pokemon Gold, _and I've been so busy trying to level up my Totodile's HP that I nearly forgot to get on here and post this.

Kudos to anyone who got that reference. And to all of you stabulous people who have been reading, reviewing, and following along. Good news for the patient ones; we're finally at the part where things are going to get more . . . _Criminal Minds-_y, adult-content wise. Still no slash, but I'm sure I can think of something else twisted for Sylar to be doing to Reid.

Oh, Lord help us all.

**Warnings: **This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Heroes. _Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of _Criminal Minds._

**Disclaimer: **Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter Twelve: Panic_**

* * *

_"Sylar."_

His smile deepened as the he pushed himself off of the wall, and the man began to approach Reid, who backed up as much as he could as he closed the distance between them.

When he – _Sylar_, Reid reminded himself – was within a foot or two of Reid's body, he stopped abruptly, and crouched down to eye-level with the genius.

"Yes," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, and Reid shivered again.

"W-what do you want?" the younger man tried to keep his voice from waning.

"You know my name – I assume you also know why I'm here, Dr. Reid. Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

_Lie. _"I d-don't know w-what you talking abou—"

Reid's words were cut off mid-sentence as a horrible, burning, searing pain suddenly slammed into his entire body. It felt as if every nerve ending were on fire, as is every bone were being crushed, as if his _very head was caving in._ Reid opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would come out – even his throat burned, and it was if someone was going down his person, slowly picking out the muscles and blood.

It was fire. It was ice.

It was _agony,_ and then –

it was gone.

Just like that, Reid could see again, and all of the pain left his body as if it had never existed, leaving only a trace of throbbing beneath his skin to remind him that it had, after all, been real. He lay, gasping, on the floor, twitching and looking up at Sylar, who leaned over him, looking in his eyes, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

"I don't like when people lie to me, Dr. Reid."

"I d-didn't – "

"Ssh," Sylar soothed, running a hand over Spencer's cheek, causing him to flinch back.

"You don't want to speak for a few minutes. When the body goes through a severe trauma, the first thing you'll want to do is catch your breath, and then rest."

Sylar's other hand shot out, and Reid jumped back, wary of being hit – but the other man merely flicked his wrist, and, out of nowhere, a bottle of water came scooting across the room.

He picked this up, and then turned back to Reid, who was slowly and carefully leaning himself against the wall, trying not to disturb his aching head.

"Here." The bottle of water was shoved at him, and Reid looked up, confused. When he hesitated, Sylar rolled his eyes, and dropped it, allowing the cheap plastic to roll on the floor for a second before landing at Reid's feet.

The genius picked it up, concentrating as he examined it, trying to determine the contents.

Sylar laughed.

"It's not poisoned, I promise. I need you alive, Dr. Reid . . . for now."

Reid's head jolted up, and, his eyes never leaving Sylar's, he put the water bottle down.

"And w-why do you need me alive?"

"Oh, all of that in good time, Dr. Reid. First – "

"S-stop calling me that!" Reid snapped, only to be overwhelmed immediately with another flashing wave of pain.

He jerked down to the floor, writhing, trying to curl up, trying to claw out – trying to find any source of relief from the pain that seemed to come from nowhere at all.

And then it was gone again, and all he could hear was the sound Sylar tsk-ing.

"Dear, dear, Doctor, I do believe we're going to have to go over the rules . . . otherwise, you're going to be of no use to me at all very quickly."

Reid blinked up at him, his head throbbing. "Rules."

It was a statement, not a question.

Sylar smiled again.

"Yes. _Rules. _I find that they make day-to-day life so much simpler, don't you?" He looked significantly down upon the man on the floor. "And _life_ is what you want, correct, Dr. Reid?"

Reid gave no response, but Sylar seemed to know, anyway. His eyes never leaving the young genius's, it was a moment before he spoke again.

"Rule number one; no lying." He ticked off on one finger. "Rule number two; when I ask you a question, _you will _answer it. Rule number three . . . don't interrupt me. Ever."

Taking in a breath, Sylar leaned away from Spencer, and with the added space, the younger man finally felt safe enough to move; he pushed himself off the floor with his elbows, and leaned against the wall, watching his opponent – he already sensed that they were foes – nervously.

"If you break or continue to break any of my rules, I _will_ punish you." Sylar's head turned sharply, and his predator-like gaze sent shudders down Reid's spine.

"Is that clear?"

Reid bit his lip, and gave a tiny nod of his head; it wasn't him giving in or giving up – but the profiler knew that, in order to stay alive, he would have to play into this man's fantasy. At least for a little while.

Suddenly, Reid gasped as he was hit with another wave of pain. It wasn't as severe as before, and he was able to stay upright, but when the heat left him this time, it was harder and harder to breath.

"I asked you a question, Doctor. Is? That? Clear?"

Each word was punctuated with another stab of pain, and Reid could feel blackness approaching at the corners of his vision.

Hurriedly, before his body could give in to the pain and pass out, he gasped, "_Yes!"_

Then, it was all gone again.

"Good." Sylar's voice was coming from somewhere higher above him, but Reid didn't open his eyes yet – he felt like if he did, he was going to be sick.

"I'm glad we understand each other – it will make this all go so much quicker."

Reid's stomach coiled up tensely, and he spoke in a weak voice, eyes still shut tight.

"What do we need to do quickly?"

"Not we, just myself, Dr. Reid. Although you are going to help me."

"Help with what?"

Finally feeling like he was oriented enough that he wouldn't black out again, Reid cracked open his eyes just in time to see a horrible, knowing smirk cross Sylar's face. He immediately slammed them back shut again, but there was nothing he could do to block out his captor's voice.

"I'm going to kill Peter Petrelli."

* * *

Morgan stood in the middle of what was rapidly becoming an active crime scene.

When he had called the police station to ask Detective Ridges if Reid had left already, or maybe shown back up, she'd said that he'd been gone for hours, and then immediately began to worry. Apparently, the woman had taken a liking to the young genius in the short time she's known him, and she immediately rustled up a few CSI techs to go and process the hotel room. She herself had shown up, and was standing next to Morgan, concerned.

"What do _you_ think happened?"

"Honestly?" Morgan replied, trying to fight back nausea and worry. "It looks like maybe someone tried to mug him or something. The place pretty well looks tossed, and some of the boxes had been gone through; there's files missing."

"Okay, but who would attack a federal agent just for some papers on a case that hasn't been made public yet?"

Morgan sighed, wishing the only answer he could come up with didn't make so much sense.

"Someone connected with the case."

Ruby looked up at him curiously, and Morgan continued.

"We haven't made the case public, as of yet – but we did release pictures of our primary suspect to the media yesterday, hoping to bring him in more quickly. Either that guy Gray _is_ the one responsible, and he panicked and tried to attack anyone involved, or it's _not _him, which is unlikely, and the real unsub, wanting recognition, made a move."

"You're certain it's that guy your liaison put on the news, though, right?"

Morgan nodded. "I am, and my team is, but we need more physical evidence; our technical analyst was trying to find DNA samples he might have submitted for this government project, but she was having trouble accessing the actual files, and . . ." Morgan drifted off as a member of Ridges' team came up to them, holding a baggie with a cotton swab of blood inside. She nodded at Morgan before addressing her superior.

"We'll need to get this tested at the lab, ma'am, before we can get you a positive ID."

The Detective nodded. "Did you find anything else, Laura?"

The younger girl looked around nervously for a moment, and, seeing that the rest of her team was paying them no mind, leaned in a bit. "It's a total mystery to me, boss, but get this. _There was no sign of a break-in. _Like, anything at all. Just Dr. Reid's keycard, which showed no signs of man-handling, or anything that looked like the lock might have been tampered with."

"But it's an _electronic_ key card," Morgan cut in. "Isn't it possible to just . . . I don't know, buy some technical thing and hack in and make the door open?"

The CSI tried not to roll her eyes. "No, Agent Morgan, it's really not. This might be a small hotel, but that lock there is Primtech-standard; impossible to hack into, last I checked. Anyway, anyone attempting to mess around with it like that would have sent a ping to the front desk; they record everything that goes on with the rooms, at least as far as entrances and exits."

"And . . . ?" Detective Ridges prompted.

"_And . . ._ when I called them, the office reported that they'd had the door open once this morning, at the time Agents Morgan and Reid left, and then once this evening, presumably when Dr. Reid returned."  
"How do we know he didn't come up behind Reid, make him open the door, grab the files, and then knock him out?"

"Because what would be the point in that?" Laura looked genuinely perplexed, and she gestured towards the ground. "Especially if he was going to take your agent with him? And, anyway, according to the blood-spatter, the person who attacked Dr. Reid was behind him, probably behind the door itself. Pretty strange position to get into if he'd already threatened the guy."

Morgan took a moment to sort out his thoughts before asking, "So . . . how the Hell did he get in the room?"

"That's what I'm wondering; because unless Agent Reid was rooming with someone for a day or two without knowing it, or this guy's Houdini, then it's not possible." The young investigator shrugged.

'Thank you, Laura." Detective Ridges smiled grimly, and moved aside so that the CSIs could begin their exit. She glanced around the catastrophe of a room, and looked back at Morgan.

"You know what I don't get?"

It took a moment for the black agent to respond, as he held the door for the last few people leaving. "What's that?"

"If this guy has anything to do with the Sylar cases at all, why did he attack here? I mean, your agents made it public that they were in Georgia, with a team heading up the investigation in New York, but . . . I never saw a mention of Odessa on the news . . ."

"That's what makes this place the most likely for him; this was where the Sylar cases first gained attention outside of a very small FBI group; when he killed a high-school student, and supposedly a second one escaped from him, the story actually became news . . . Plus, all of the information regarding the case has been stored here . . . he might have been hanging around, waiting for a chance to steal files, and when we came, he couldn't resist. The profile says that the guy is a sadist, subject to hyper-organization, levels of obsession, power-reassurance tendencies, and on a spree – again. When the opportunity came to possibly wipe away any evidence tying him to the case, and possibly an agent who could find him, he literally couldn't resist."

"So what does this mean for your agent?"

Morgan sighed, hating that he knew the truth. "Odds are . . . he'll try to get as much information as he can from Reid, in his own way . . . and then he'll . . . he'll dispose of him afterwards." Morgan's voice cracked on the last words, and he had to force himself to keep cool.

_Don't break down in front of an officer, don't break down . . ._

She must have heard something in his voice, anyway, because the Detective moved behind Morgan, and awkwardly rubbed his shoulder. Trying to divert attention from the awfulness of the situation, she looked around.

"It looks like a damn twister went through here," she observed, still somewhat shocked by the state of mess that the hotel room was in.

Morgan looked up, knowing what the woman was trying to do, but still grateful for it. He nodded sadly, still thinking.

Both of them were very surprised when there was knocking on the door behind them, and a voice called out, "Hello?"

* * *

Peter walked through the gleaming back entryway of what he was rapidly beginning to think of as Spencer's hotel, and began the slow and dreadful climb up the stairs.

He had sat at the train station for nearly six hours, and no one had shown up. Even when he'd missed his train, and had decided to walk around, visible, for awhile, he'd seen no hint of Sylar. And though he'd cast out his 'net' of telepathy, the other man was staying curiously silent, and Peter couldn't hear his thoughts at all.

_Curiouser and curiouser, _he'd mused, even though the situation was becoming dire as well as confusing. He still didn't understand how his powers worked completely, so something like not being able to hear someone's thoughts, while unsettling, wasn't all that surprising. Peter blamed it on his exhaustion.

So, after a few hours of scouring Odessa and finding nothing relevant to his new crusade, the man had meandered back to where his friend was staying, hoping he could convince Reid to let him crash for another night.

Peter was slightly leery of this; he knew that he had hurt Spencer's feelings when he announced that he was leaving again, and then trying to confront him about the drugs, too . . . but Peter couldn't help it; this was his best friend, one of the smartest and strongest people he knew, and for him to have turned to _drugs? _

God, it had broken Peter's heart when he's caved and listened in to Spencer's thoughts when the young man was departing; that had confirmed it, and solidified Peter's resolve as well.

He was going to help Reid – as soon as he dealt with Sylar.

Which he _would_ do . . . as soon as he could recuperate and get some rest.

Which would hopefully be right now.

Peter approached the door to Spencer's room, wondering how his best friend was dealing with the mess in there.

_I could help him clean up a bit, I suppose,_ Peter thought tiredly as he raised a hand to the door, and knocked, calling out, "Hello?"

When no one answered, he thought simply about phasing through the door . . . but even considering it, his back flared up, and Peter knew he was too exhausted for any acts like the other day. Instead, he touched the electronic door-handle, and asked it very kindly to open for him.

A moment later, the light flashed green, and he swung the door open, stepping inside.

Only to be greeted by two guns held level with his face by a tall back man and a shorter, very pretty woman beside him.

Peter imagined that each of them had identical looks of shock and outrage on their faces, as the three all shouted, "Who the Hell are _you?_"

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Sylar's fun . . . especially when I imagine every evil word coming out of his mouth in that _delicious_ Zachary Quinto voice . . . *Shivers*

Oh, well. I'm off to conquer the Johto League!


End file.
